Dead Girls Get the Views
She posted heart emojis the night she died,
a digital bouquet tossed before the tide.
Now strangers kneel with flowers outside her rented door,
candles flicker for a face they never saw before.
Comments bloom like fungus on the feed–
half confessions, half the latest need.
Each “RIP” and “she was light” twists the wire,
but silence reigned when the body was tired.
No one asked why her voice grew cold,
or why the hallway stank of secrets sold.
Now they curate every memory, rewrite every post,
but their hands were never there, just empty boasts.
Her final selfie circulates–a radiant lie,
a smile cracked wide beneath an uncaring sky.
Soft-lit sorrow, mascara streaked in holy frame,
a silent scream immortalized for the algorithm’s aim.
No one heard when pain typed itself out in her bones,
but when she stilled, the shares came in drones.
Now she’s a hashtag, a rally, a cause–
her story a product, her agony applause.
Every influencer mines her absence for fame,
eulogies monetized, sympathy a marketing game.
He laughed online, they told him “be a man,”
mocked his faltering, dismissed his plan.
His wrists were verses nobody would sing,
now his words are stitched as a trending thing.
Screenshots of grief, branded and sold,
despair recast in captions cold.
No one held the silence that poisoned his nights,
but his pain is reshared as digital rites.
The AI catalogues every public collapse,
watches hashtags stack like funeral apps.
Brands swoop to sponsor the trending despair,
grief is repackaged for those who care.
Candles glow for engagement, not for peace,
every like and view another release.
Love’s a commodity traded in shares,
pain is content, sold in layers.
Rituals written by blue-lit hands,
a million mourners, none understand.
Dead girls get the views, their stories sold raw,
no one noticed the fracture in her jaw.
Trauma breaks the news, bright and obscene,
dancing around her phone–another digital scene.
Feed the feed with tears and rage,
then swipe to mock the next stage.
Her face on canvas, sadness as muse,
love claimed in public, but private abuse.
She’s not here–her soul’s never seen,
only the corpse, endlessly clean.
The body’s a banner, the pain’s a clue,
but the living remain–absent, askew.
You never touched what she truly knew,
you loved the body, and the views.