How to Breathe Before Dying
Or how social media killed me
Take a breath and look at what you’ve done.
At the click of your hand, the lives of the bait that you once shared, bite back with chaotic poison.
I did it.
I sold your names and they grabbed it, but your torment will last for an hour while mine will simmer for a lifetime.
Who am I and why do I grieve for someone who is already gone?
The mirror cracks with the gaze of a sullen figure, sunken in regret and reprieve.
How long the days when your clicks lead to social banter as society beckons to the copy and paste of names that refused to be slotted.
Despite roominess for error.
The backlash is lashes of apologies and the beating down of the downtrodden, dressed in silent perplexity, as the clock ticks and the clicks salt the wounds of the morning after…
Predators prey for your destruction and I would watch with befuddled restraint and the buckles safely entrapped my freedom. And now, I am armored with the power to roam, in search of a place where I can relax my menaced template.
A soft cove filled with the liquid of slippery slopes and images gaping with temptation.
Each of the items present the perfect pod for the sheets of errors that were supposed to fit in the slot, but some escaped without warning.
That fateful fucking morning.
As the bulletin steams through the margins of timelines and the clicks that were once mine assault their way through my heart.
All I need is a zone-free puddle, where I can rehearse the ways to breathe before dying.
After that click.
It was me. I did it.