I know how you’re reading this.
One hand on the phone,
one hand on your life
like it’s a drink you don’t really like
but you already paid for it.
You’re not here.
You’re hovering.
You’re giving me the same attention
you give a headline
about a country you can’t pronounce,
a wildfire you’ll forget by Thursday,
a kid in a photo
you’ll “feel bad about”
until the next swipe.
And don’t act offended.
you came for this.
You clicked because the title
looked like trouble
and you miss trouble
in the way people miss summer
while sitting inside
with the heat on.
You mother fucker.
You’re so good at being moved
without moving.
You carry empathy like a subscription,
auto-renewed,
rarely used,
mostly there
to keep you from feeling like
the kind of person
who doesn’t have any.
I can practically hear you thinking.
“Yeah.”
“True.”
“Damn.”
You want this poem
to punch you
and then apologize
and tuck you in.
You want me to be honest
in a way that costs you nothing,
to be brutal
so you can feel clean.
You mother fucker.
You’ve mastered the modern posture:
chin down, eyes up,
pretending to watch
while you sleep.
But here’s the part
you won’t like,
the part you’ll scroll past
and tell yourself you got the gist:
Your apathy isn’t neutral.
It’s a vote
you cast every day
for the people who never get tired,
the ones who love your silence
because it sounds like permission.
And you know this.
That’s why you’re still reading—
not because you care,
but because a small animal in you
keeps scratching at the cage.