Glare of the screen-

hurling words,

No,

Daggers.

To tear with a gory, vermillion scream.

Silent on the screen,

but with the sound of sriracha burning your brain.

 

Cuts into your soft flesh

Leave open wounds with no resistance

To festering infection.

The next slice just as simple.

 

You cling to the fuzzy laughter of the past,

but it’s drowned out by the shrill, frozen tolls of today’s guffaws.

Your army of fire ants cannot escape the sneaker as it caresses the floor with no respect for you.

You cling desperately to your brethren,

but some of them are giants with their pristine sneakers now,

and some of them have already been squished onto the thousand degree tar.

 

The slices become scars.

Still embedded in silky skin

But the fresh cuts dance in intricate patterns

Over the old.

Still breaking the glass with ease.

 

Negativity breeds negativity.

The taste of hushed tones and whispered insults-

The stink of searing text clawing into your psyche-

Malevolence meandering around every corner

behind every click of the mouse.

 

The scars cling to each other.

One after another.

New ones rare,

But old ones reopening every so often

To torment you.

 

The glare of the screen in blinding with your size.

An ant is only powerful with an army.

But the hurled words daggers are too large to harm you

as they screech out of the screen.

They cannot be aimed with enough precision.

 

It’s keeps getting harder to look,

but it’s getting easier to survive

with the furious scars you now bear.

Hardened to protect you from the blade.

Not skin but diamond,

Built up under enormous pressure underground

But now stronger than anything else.