(I saw it. I saved it.)
(“lol” stacked on my face like I’m something you scroll)
It’s just the guys—keep it light, don’t do the most.
Couple reactions, couple laughs, that’s how it goes.
You stare at my screen like you’re hunting for a crime,
so I tilt it away and tell you “breathe,” tell you “fine.”
I clear my throat, sip water, talk softer on purpose,
like softer makes it harmless.
I say “you’re taking it personal,” like that’s your flaw,
then act surprised when your voice goes flat.
I’m not your content, I’m not your joke.
Don’t dress it up—your “lol” is smoke.
You made me small for a room to cheer,
so I’m cutting the sound right here.
I’m not your punchline, not your show.
No title, no access—no.
If you can share me for them to rate,
you can lose me the same way.
I tap unfollow like a timeout when you speak too loud,
then follow back when you calm down—see how quick you bow?
If that button hurts you, maybe that’s on you,
I’m not here for lectures, I’m here for something smooth.
You want me to “prove it,” you want me to pick a side,
I want my image clean—no mess, no fight.
So yeah, I follow—then unfollow—then follow,
call it “space,” call it “peace,” call it “don’t ask why.”
(“she’s losing it”)
Unfollowed.
Followed you.
Message unsent.
Don’t—don’t—don’t.
Don’t toggle me.
You want love like a person, I want it like a feature—
on when it benefits me, off when it needs a reason.
I want applause in the thread, not a real-life cost,
so I call you “dramatic” when you point at what I caused.
Control without commitment—clean, convenient, slick.
Punish with a button, then act like it’s “just a click.”
I keep my hands looking nice while I move you like a setting,
and if you stay, I call it “proof” that you’ll keep accepting.
I’m not your content, I’m not your joke.
Don’t dress it up—your “lol” is smoke.
You made me small for a room to cheer,
so I’m cutting the sound right here.
I’m not your punchline, not your show.
No title, no access—no.
Unfollow me for real—make it stick.
Either respect me… or lose me. Choose.
