What the Algorithm Learned About You

The algorithm knows what I won't say at three a.m.

I start to type but stop before the end—

the gray suggestion's there, my closest friend,

the phone completing thoughts I'd never pen.

Delete from history, but not from the cloud.

The machine remembers. It learned me well.

In dark hours I search for things I can't tell,

and the suggestion comes back, sure and proud.

Tomorrow it will offer the same gray line,

casual as a mouth that knows your shame.

The phone has learned me, learned my name,

keeps all my secrets in a perfect file.

I could search for anything at all.

But I search for this, and the machine responds,

finishing the sentence, reading my bonds,

the dark thing I'm too scared to call.