You go on-line with perfect framing, soft voice, “this is hard to share”. Every crack becomes a season, every tear a branded stare. “Look how broken, look how fragile, I’m the pain you can relate.” While the ones who shake in silence still show up and drag their load. You turn pain into a costume, wear it loud for every crowd. Some of us are really drowning – we just don’t have time to shout. YOU WEAR A VICTIM CROWN, BUT YOU NEVER HIT THE GROUND. YOU SELL YOUR “BROKEN” FACE, WHILE WE BLEED OFF-CAMERA, OUT OF FRAME. YOU CALL IT “CALLING ATTENTION”, BUT YOU’RE STUCK ON YOUR OWN REFLECTION. IF THIS IS ALL YOU WANT FROM PAIN, DON’T YOU DARE CALL IT CONFESSION. Every story gets a filter, every tear a perfect cut. You say “speaking for the voiceless” – but your mic is stuck on “ME”. We’ve got nights that have no angle, scars that never made a reel. You perform a pretty breakdown, we just work and try to heal. You collect our words like trophies, post them, call it “holding space”. But when weight gets really ugly, you scroll past and change the place. THIS IS NOT ABOUT THE ONES WHO BREAK AND NEVER FIND A WORD. THIS IS FOR THE ONES WHO MINE OTHER PEOPLE’S RUIN FOR PAY. YOUR “SO BROKEN” BRAND, YOUR “TRAGIC” SMILE, YOUR ENDLESS FEED OF CURATED CRIES. WE CARRY A LOAD YOU’D NEVER TOUCH – IT WON’T GO VIRAL— SO YOU DON’T CARE THAT MUCH. YOU WEAR A VICTIM CROWN, WE BEAR THE LOAD. YOU WANT THEIR TEARS, WE WANT IT TO STOP. IF YOU’RE HERE FOR VIEWS ON PAIN, TURN AROUND— GET OUT OF THIS FUCKING LANE.
