Everybody and their Mother

They fight because the void calls and typing feels like answering, because to sit with oneself is a terror unmatched, because a reply is proof you exist to someone, even if only as a target.

Because the screen hums,

because silence is unbearable,

because everyone’s a prophet

when no one is looking—

an army of egos

marching pixel by pixel

into the abyss of each other.

They fight

because words feel like weapons

but carry no weight in the hand,

because it’s easier to tear down

than to build

when no one can see your face.

They fight because the void calls

and typing feels like answering,

because to sit with oneself

is a terror unmatched,

because a reply is proof

you exist to someone,

even if only as a target.

They fight

because it’s the only way

to be loud

in a world drowning in sound,

because rage feels holy

when the alternative is numbness,

because they forgot

what it means to touch someone

without leaving a bruise.

And when the dust settles,

there’s nothing—

just the faint flicker

of a screen left on too long,

a battlefield littered with fragments

of things that were never whole.