The screen between us

Does the screen protect

from a missile’s impact?

I feel pain

in my digits—

scrolling, twitching

buried in rubble

made of pixels.

I suffocate.

I hear the cries

through antennas,

see blood

running in squares of light.

I hear.

I see.

I know you.

I’ve memorized your faces.

I’m here–

behind this screen.

When did witnessing

become consumption?

I found you between

makeup tutorials,

a burger ad,

a party poster.

“The lineup is a killer,”

they said.

I wonder—

what kills?

I wish I could die.

I wish I could hurt—

like I’ve got a bullet

lodged in my throat,

and two more

to blind each eye.

I wish I could be

crucified in copper wire,

blessed by static–

holy waves,

in a burning window.

I wish I could save you—

for a minute,

let alone a day.

I keep my eyes open,

bathed in blue.

They water red—

small scars for staying fed,

the only wound I’m allowed to carry,

bleeding for a screen-shaped god.

I promised

I’d see it all.

I promised

I’d bear witness.

I promised

I’d fill my heart with hate—

never forgive,

never forget.

War performs for us now.

Do I share your suffering

by sharing a post?

I scroll

through comments

below your image—

hunting for someone to blame,

someone to grieve with.

I forget—

how can I hurt,

untouched?

Swipe.

A body made of feed.

Swipe.

I weep.

This screen between us—

so wide,

so bleak,

so close I almost touch you—

until I swipe again,

and I’m here.

And I wonder:

is it really war

if no one goes viral?

Swipe.

When did horror

become part of the algorithm?

I breathe.

A child—amputated.

I see.

I look.

I see.

I look—

again.

Again.

See.

Look.

Witness it all.

Absorb it all.

Remember.

Where does the body hold digital grief ?

I wonder.

I scroll.

Is witnessing

all I can give?

A hospital–

blown to dust,

a family–

buried in dust.

I say:

“At least they’re together.

No one’s left behind.”

Since when

did death in numbers

feel like mercy?

Since when

was death the norm?

A Coca-Cola ad.

A DJ spinning

at an after-party.

People planning to meet again—

in the club,

while others pray

to meet again

in the afterlife.

They say:

“We’re all martyrs

in the making.”

I wonder

what makes a martyr:

sacrifice,

or virality.

I see.

A girl speaks of her father:

“He used to provide for us.

Now he’s gone.”

Is it selfish

to turn off the phone?

I chase the news—

Run to stories.

Did they share the body?

War is always

a scroll away.

You get a sneak peek into hell–

then switch to skincare.

No one goes viral

if they die quietly.

Only the martyrs

who made it

to the feed.

Those who suffered so loud

they lost limbs,

or eyes,

or heads,

or lives—

so you could look.

So you could see.

Turn your head away in fear–

but don't forget:

monetizing martyrs

is the new frontier.

My algorithm

is a mass grave—

with disabled comments

and a martyrdom touchscreen.

I died in the feed.

This screen between us

stores all my grief.