dia,
I'm sick
of you. You're
not quite my news
source. You're more
often my blues
force.
You're where
I go to send
my thoughts at night.
You're where
I read people
pushing sisters
and brothers
off their soapboxes.
"My turn," they say.
"and
don't worry,
I've brought enough
shame for everyone."
I don't like
the pointing fingers,
the climbing pedestals,
"this is just
my view [but
you better
agree with me, or else]."
Social Media,
can I tell you
something?
I think
you're like a magazine
article or a pict-
ure in time:
You tell
a beautiful
lie.
Here lies
John Smith,
pictured here
with his
three smiling children.
Seconds
after the camera
flashed, his son
was murdered,
his
younger daughter stripped
from his arms,
and his
life forever altered.
Weeks
later he ended
his own life
when
the
pain wouldn't subside.
"But look
how happy
he is in this photo!
What happened?"
"I can draw
my conclusions."
"I can paint
a picture with
421 lines.
It will look just
like him,"
but the picture
will lie.
We take
pictures to
remind us of
life lived,
but they hide
our true selves
until others
think they understand.
"Let me paint
a picture for you."
"The likeness
is uncanny!"
"He was never like
this."
"Did I ever even k-
now him?"
But, Social Me-
dia, I must tell you
this
thing:
I could
never tell you
this because
the plank
in my right eye
is too grand
for me to
reach
the splinter
in your left.
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