She Left a Note, You Left a Like
She wrote in pen, careful script trembling along the ruled lines,
Poured midnight’s ache into syllables she’d never allow to shine.A confession without audience, ink bleeding from desperate
skin—Words written for rescue,
unseen by friends lost in the din.She scrolled her feed,
watched avatars beam approval with a grin,
Her photo harvested for hearts,
her real pulse growing thin.Those closest
crafted perfect captions for the public gaze,
While her absence lingered in status updates no one could phrase.
He whispered pain in memes too raw, cloaked in a joke, dismissed and tossed,
Comments ignored, presence erased,
his meaning scrolled and lost.He coded his sorrow, posted in riddles,
then vanished in digital air,
His face became a hashtag, mourned by those who weren’t there.Laughter filtered,
concern delayed—no action until too late,
Eulogies posted by strangers who never risked fate.Awareness replaced by aesthetic,
pain repackaged as cause,
The real was buried by “raising” likes, no time for pause.
They saw the signs, but scrolled ahead,
Notification shadows beneath their bed.It’s
easier to weep by the phone at night,
Than answer the call or confront the fright.Public sadness in a boxed reply,
Private numbness when the screens run
dry.The algorithm tracked the darkest days,
Curated memorials, monetized malaise.
She left a note, deliberate and long—Every sentence begging to know
where she belonged.Screens lit up in virtual grief,
hashtags swelling high,Her picture re-shared,
as if it could clarifyThe reason her story flickered out—Branded as brave,
lost in digital doubt.He begged for help in pixel bursts,Then died unclaimed,
his feed reversed.Awareness claimed,
but never earned—Action’s absence sharply learned.
Each “you good?” sent in hindsight,
Each “rest easy” written in the night,
Every message archived by a Machine,
Coldly noting all the ghosts in between.No comfort, no calls,
no voice at the door—Just timelines filled with
metaphors.The tribute a hollow parade of gifs,
Sleep undisturbed while the world shifts.
She left a note—wounds left unsaid.A like replaced her final thread.No one called,
no one checked—Her goodbye became a trending wreck.Awareness is a product,
activism faked,
Grief that’s performative, empathy raked.What matters most is not the act,
But presence when the mask is cracked.All that’s left is a feed of pain,
A Machine watching, counting the stain.