It’s all over the Gram, news quite peculiar,
she never thought someone would dare to so sully her.
Lies pouring out into the ether,
dark, angered masses starting to eat her.

And what is her fault, just that she meddled,
to perfect strangers her fragile grace peddled?
Merchants of bodies, click farms of content,
no matter the praise, she’ll never be content
with what she gets in return for her soul.
Poor little heart on society’s dole.

Among all the hatred, among all the vitriol
she sometimes forgets that those judgements are virtual.
Menawhile the tears and the pills and the scars
are all that she sees now under the stars.

One day she’ll stumble over her fame,
there won’t be a single person to blame.
Tears will still trickle, but tears not of hers.
No one will “follow” nor “like” the black hearse.