Downloaded, Not Known

sometimes i wonder
if anyone really knew me
or if they just downloaded me.

if they heard the voice
or the silence beneath it.
if they laughed at the joke
or noticed the bruise it came from.

⸻

i uploaded intimacy
because it felt safer than offering it.
it’s easier to press record
than to ask
“do you see me?”

because sometimes
the microphone listens
more than people do.

⸻

they loved the sound of me.
not the shape.
not the softness.
not the sweat.

they adored the rhythm
but not the reason.

they quoted me
but never called back.

⸻

you can stream a person
so much you forget
they’re not a playlist.

you can fuck a voice
and never touch
the mouth it came from.

⸻

i once monologued for eighteen minutes
about a boy who called me beautiful
then left me on read.
people said it was hilarious.
i didn’t say how much it hurt
it was a tale for them but my reality.

⸻

i joked about suicide
and got likes.
i cried on mic
and someone messaged
“lol same.”

i performed my pain
so well
they thought it was drag.

⸻

i am not a moodboard.
i am not a horny hot take.
i am not a glitch for you to remix
into something safer.

i was bleeding
between segments
but you liked the transitions.

⸻

there are people
who have heard me moan, cry,
laugh, choke,
rage, and beg
through their headphones—

and have never once
asked
if i made it through the night.

⸻

sometimes i wonder
what my archive knows
that my lovers never did.
what my podcast remembers
when my body forgets.

i miss people
who still follow me.
i grieve people
who still quote me.

⸻

i put myself online
so no one could say
they didn’t know me.

and still—
they didn’t
they don’t.

⸻

but i did.
i knew myself
in the breath between edits.
in the mess i never trimmed.
in the jokes i kept
because they were
just
true
enough.

⸻

maybe no one
ever really knew me.
but i kept
recording anyway.
and that counts
for something.