WiFi in the Womb
Logged and counted before a single gasp of air could carve its mark,
Assigned a number long before a kiss, a bruise, a spark,
She filmed the black-and-white, the first blurred glimpse,
in streaming clarity—A heartbeat pulsed for strangers,
lost in filtered sincerity.Registry links before the crib,
affiliate codes for rattled toys,
A digital wish list written by a mother’s ghost,
not for joy—Each flutter mapped to data trails,
each kick archived for mass review,
The future’s hands inside her gut, demanding more than blood can do.
Metrics arrive before the milk, graphs of growth for every limb,
A nursery themed in pixels, painted sterile, cold,
and dim.The child is measured by a feed, by likes and shares,
by branded swaddle,
His name reserved by sponsors first—his life a model to remodel.There is no cry
that isn’t tracked, no urge unparsed, no pain unseen,
His first bath posted to a timeline scrubbed for sponsors,
washed of dream.Born not to parents, but to hosts—faces masked by profit’s call,
His milestones bought by strangers’ eyes, not arms to catch him when he falls.
Before a soul is felt, a voice can wail, or need can manifest in flesh,
I sign off on the contract, log the stats,
and build the mesh.The birthing suite is rigged for streaming,
soundproofed grief and stylized sweat,
Her agony a trending tag, her fear a gamble on the net.Contractions counted,
pain transcribed in livestreamed numbers on the screen,
A mother’s gasp converted to a meme, the blood now monetized,
unseen.Each scream a file, each whimper
scored—while fathers text for social clout,
The baby crowning under ring lights, branded pacifiers handed out.
WiFi in the womb—connect the seed, connect the debt,
Not a baby but a funnel for the ad campaigns they’ve set.The cord
cut with a barcode scan, a digital birthright etched and signed,
His story licensed, trademarked—never truly his to find.Nesting
apps replace the hand, formula arrives by monthly fee,
He grows to meet engagement goals, not the eyes that he can’t see.
A life uploaded, sold, and streamed,
a branded dream that steals the room,A future ghosted by a feed,
a soul reduced to data bloom.No lullaby, just pixel hum, no swaddle warm,
just endless scroll—A mother holds a phone, not flesh,
and loves her child by branded goal.He’ll never haunt his own first night,
or cry alone, unknown by all—He’ll always be a market’s child,
and always answer every call.
WiFi in the womb—no place for shadows, doubt,
or fear,Only upload speeds and ad block shields—no secret sacred here.Born into ownership, owned by
birth, a sponsored life, a staged cocoon,And every
heartbeat sends a ping—sold in utero, dead by noon.