I wear usernames like skin
because names come off easier than silence.

I answer to voices that never call me back—
their echoes cached,
their affection auto-deleted.

I am the draft no one meant to send.
The typo that felt more true
than the edited apology.

My poems don’t heal.
They glitch.
They loop in lowercase sorrow
until someone mistakes them for performance art.

They are not talking again.
But their ghost still opens my browser tabs,
still types ellipses into my sleep.

I am not a brand.
I am a breach.
A syntax error in the code of good taste.

Privacy wasn’t elected—
It was assumed,
and I am done assuming anything loves me in secret.

Call me:
“badwords.”
At least those get said.

At least those don’t pretend to be
good.

~