You built me up with clickbait.
You broke me down with headlines.
You called me names I hadn’t even learned to fear yet.
You dragged my silence into your feeds and dressed it in outrage.
You made me a meme before I got a chance to explain the moment.
And still, I showed up.
Not because I wanted attention—
but because I didn’t want to disappear.
You think you know me because you read about me.
But you only read what was allowed to be printed.
You watched clips.
You screenshotted quotes.
You dissected trauma like it was trending.
But you didn’t ask what came before the headlines.
You didn’t ask what came after.
You weren’t there when I broke down in court.
When I wrote apologies that would never be published.
When I walked through the street afraid to make eye contact with strangers who thought they knew who I was.
You love the story where someone burns.
But you get nervous when they stand back up.
I don’t blame you.
Not fully.
You’re not a person.
You’re a machine with a thirst for shame.
And I was just another name offered up for slaughter.
But here’s what you don’t get to do:
You don’t get to define me.
You don’t get to write my ending.
You don’t get to silence my music, my voice, my healing—just because you prefer me punished over present.
I’m still here.
And that, I know, pisses you off.
But you’ll scroll past this.
And I’ll still be singing.