People say bring back bullying,
bring back tough love,
like breaking a child ever built one.
They call it discipline, tradition, character,
as if pain has ever raised anything
except graves.
They hold up a dove, wings clean and holy,
and ask us to worship it,
while beneath the feathers
their hands are red.
Suicide is not a trend.
It is not a headline you scroll past.
It is children dying before they learn
how to name the ache in their chest.
No knife is needed.
Words are enough.
They cut quieter,
they bleed longer,
and everyone pretends not to hear it.
We scroll through bodies like static.
Faces blur.
Names vanish.
Because it didn’t happen here,
because it wasn’t ours,
we call distance mercy.
But every day, somewhere,
a child disappears
while silence stands guard.
Look closer.
People are dying.
Mamas and papas’ worlds
murdered by words,
homes collapsing without a sound.
Someone needed a target.
Someone needed to feel taller.
You didn’t make them strong.
You shattered them.
Even steel breaks when struck enough times,
and if they were truly weak,
you wouldn’t have tried so hard
to erase them.
Kids leave quietly.
They say goodbye in ways
their siblings won’t understand yet.
Controllers waiting for hands
that will never return.
Plastic teacups growing cold.
A princess gone from the castle
with no explanation.
Your jokes echo in the empty rooms.
Your laughter outlives them.
When I was five,
I watched a girl die.
No blade.
No blood.
Just a slow drowning in voices
that taught her peace
only lived at the bottom.
She didn’t scream.
They took that from her first.
If I vanished,
my mother would break open.
My brother would wait forever.
My sister would ask why the kingdom fell.
And the world would still shrug,
still say kids are just kids,
still wash its hands
and walk away.
This is not bullying.
This is killing.
A massacre stretched thin enough
to look acceptable.
A genocide of childhood
defended by people
too afraid to name themselves.
So don’t bring back cruelty.
Don’t resurrect harm
and call it love.
Bring back kindness.
Bring back breath.
Bring back something that keeps us human.
Bring back life
because all too many of you
have played God
and killed the angels
we have left.
Feb 7
Feb 7, 2026 at 9:59 PM UTC
People say bring back bullying,
bring back tough love,
like breaking a child ever built one.
They call it discipline, tradition, character,
as if pain has ever raised anything
except graves.
They hold up a dove, wings clean and holy,
and ask us to worship it,
while beneath the feathers
their hands are red.
Suicide is not a trend.
It is not a headline you scroll past.
It is children dying before they learn
how to name the ache in their chest.
No knife is needed.
Words are enough.
They cut quieter,
they bleed longer,
and everyone pretends not to hear it.
We scroll through bodies like static.
Faces blur.
Names vanish.
Because it didn’t happen here,
because it wasn’t ours,
we call distance mercy.
But every day, somewhere,
a child disappears
while silence stands guard.
Look closer.
People are dying.
Mamas and papas’ worlds
murdered by words,
homes collapsing without a sound.
Someone needed a target.
Someone needed to feel taller.
You didn’t make them strong.
You shattered them.
Even steel breaks when struck enough times,
and if they were truly weak,
you wouldn’t have tried so hard
to erase them.
Kids leave quietly.
They say goodbye in ways
their siblings won’t understand yet.
Controllers waiting for hands
that will never return.
Plastic teacups growing cold.
A princess gone from the castle
with no explanation.
Your jokes echo in the empty rooms.
Your laughter outlives them.
When I was five,
I watched a girl die.
No blade.
No blood.
Just a slow drowning in voices
that taught her peace
only lived at the bottom.
She didn’t scream.
They took that from her first.
If I vanished,
my mother would break open.
My brother would wait forever.
My sister would ask why the kingdom fell.
And the world would still shrug,
still say kids are just kids,
still wash its hands
and walk away.
This is not bullying.
This is killing.
A massacre stretched thin enough
to look acceptable.
A genocide of childhood
defended by people
too afraid to name themselves.
So don’t bring back cruelty.
Don’t resurrect harm
and call it love.
Bring back kindness.
Bring back breath.
Bring back something that keeps us human.
Bring back life
because all too many of you
have played God
and killed the angels
we have left.
