Brutalized
What do you want? What do you wish for as you watch my accounts? When you have friends and partners and family watch me, like perhaps with your Sunday brunch my usernames find their way into your diet.
I am me online. I am my face, though perhaps mildly weathered from the half dozen years, or what I may be faring that day. Do you laugh at that? At my appearance? At the stupid little glimpses of what I choose to show? Are you searching for more, perhaps? But then, what becomes more than ten seconds? You would only search for the narrative you are apart of. Do you search for my story? Do you wish to know how I tell my story, that you deprived me of when you cut my tongue? Do you wish to know how I have adapted? How I speak of you in my disabled way? It would be amusing your obsession, nearly, if it didn’t bother me so. You rely on a moronic account for public opinion on you. Don’t you know I do not hate you? That I am kind in words, though I am brutal in its executation