The Hunger Behind the Screen

By Sharda Gupta

I ate a salad for likes,

and cried over my phone,

because no one loved me without a filter.

I danced in reels

with a smile stitched from sponsored teeth,

while my soul slept hungry

in the drafts folder.

They called me radiant.

I was rotting.

Each post—

a polished gravestone

for the girl I buried

behind ring lights and sponsored skincare.

Once, I laughed for real.

Now I schedule laughter

between #MondayMotivation

and #SelfLoveSundays.

I pixel my skin

into porcelain lies,

erase my thighs,

airbrush my loneliness,

and post it all with

“Grateful to be alive.”

Alive?

I haven’t felt my breath

since I traded my breakfast

for green tea and DMs.

Fame tastes like saltless rice—

every bite familiar,

yet forever bland.

There is a hunger

no brand can fill—

a craving not for followers,

but for someone

to see the mess beneath

and not scroll past.

I want to bleed

without hashtags.

I want to mourn

without monetizing my grief.

But the algorithm is a god

that punishes silence.

So I post.

And post.

And post.

Until my mother forgets my real laugh,

until my dog looks confused

when I cry off-camera,

until I am just a caption

on a body

no longer mine.

By Sharda Gupta