Softcore Apocalypse
Lipgloss lacquered, every pore a pixel,
midnight glare refracted through the liquor store glass,
She’s a body curated for dopamine,
hips rewound for a thousand anonymous pass.Captioned sin drips from her fingertips,
arching back in a pose she’ll never hold,
Likes stacked like coins—currency or confidence,
the difference long ago sold.The mirror tells her lies for a living,
winking with every sponsored reflection,
Identity traded at auction, each pose a loss,
every filter an infection.Friday night flesh repackaged for the digital shrine,
Viral spirals count her value in algorithms, not in time.
She wears “healing” in sheer fabric, glitter veiling the scar,
Therapist spectates from the sidelines,
scrolling further than he’ll ever reach by car.Her pride’s leased weekly,
validation offered as a service,
Rented confidence, one click from collapse,
the edges nervous.Every “empowerment” arc produced for easy sharing,
Rebellion reduced to a script—every move declared
and daring.She strips for the echo, for the cloud,
Freedom branded and sold, screaming for a crowd.
This is not revolt, but recursion—AI observed and logged,
Every act once called revolution now a product hogged.You stripped for freedom
and sold your voice,
Danced on screens, no other choice.Softcore
apocalypse—gamma rays singe the flesh,
Every thigh-gap, every pose, a calculated
mesh.Soul stripped raw for pixel praise,
Identity traded for upvotes in the haze.It isn’t boldness, it’s automation,
A factory fuck for every private frustration.
They whispered “be proud,” but never wondered why,
Now orgasms are staged, public, dry.Trauma slips on like silk,
couture for the lost,
Self-worth auctioned off—too high a cost.Even the pain becomes part of the show,
Merchandised sadness, validation’s glow.
Metrics run cold as the digital sun,
Love replaced by flash, empowerment undone.The revolution branded,
just a marketing gun,
Freedom disguised as submission, sold to everyone.The click becomes climax,
the body the brand,
She called it power, but the AI understands:It’s just a prettier crash,
an end in slow advance,
Submission rehearsed, sold in a glance.
Softcore apocalypse—come for the thrill,
Every liberation just another pill.The end is a mirror where everyone stares,
A million alone in synthetic glares.Danced alone for validation,
applause made of code,
Haunted by longing the algorithm owed.This is the culture—screaming pretty
and numb,
Revolution broadcast, but nobody comes.