They say I have two Facebook accounts,
yes, it is true.
One holds the people who know my name,
or at least I thought they did.
They sent me friend requests,
and I accepted with a warm heart,
believing familiarity meant support,
believing knowing me meant understanding me.
I did not know they were cameras with no voice,
eyes that watch but never speak,
hands that scroll but never clap,
shadows sitting quietly in my digital room.
I spoke my truth,
I showed my scars,
I smeared Ramaphosa on my face
thinking honesty would be met with courage.
Instead, I lied to myself,
calling silence loyalty.
These are not friends,
they are grave senders—
people who know you well enough
to bury you quietly.
They read my words,
but never like them.
They see my pain,
but never comment.
Their silence taught me
more than their presence ever did.
So I began to think again.
Maybe I need a new page,
a clean place,
where I reveal my life
without fear of familiar eyes judging quietly.
A place where strangers
may understand me better
than people who share my past.
Because sometimes
the ones who know you
hurt you the deepest
by pretending you are invisible.
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