Alone in a Thousand Notifications

By Sharda Gupta

I sat with my glowing screen—

blue-lit, sterile,

like a lover who had lost desire.

He whispered in pings and alerts,

but never touched

the hollow behind my ribs.

I posted a photo of my pain,

filtered it—Valencia, maybe Lark—

and waited.

Hearts came, fast as flies

on rotting sugar,

but no one called my name

with the ache of knowing me.

The world is a scroll, endless.

Women cry in stories that vanish,

children die behind trending sounds,

and men preach virtue

between reels of thighs and war.

I used to bleed words on paper—

now I bleed silence

into a black mirror

that reflects a thousand faces,

but not one soul.

My mother says

“don’t post your sorrow like cheap perfume,”

but what else do I own

except a body colonized

by invisible eyes?

I loved a man who replied in emojis,

kissed me in GIFs,

left when I turned human

and asked him to listen.

In this age,

even gods need a good Wi-Fi.

Priests live-stream salvation,

and the dead

are buried in virtual folders.

And I—

I am naked, still.

But not for touch.

Only for views.

Only for likes.

Only for forgetting.

By Sharda Gupta