Pixels & Lies

I don’t hate you, I hate the mask.

The way the screen reshapes your bones, enlarges what was never there, erases what was.

A filter, a tint, a brush of light — that’s fine. Just play, just paint the night. A little gloss where shadows fall, a touch of blush, no crime at all.

But bend your bones through plastic screens, stretch your waist till you split the seams, shrink your face, swell your chest — is that the body you think looks best?

That isn’t beauty. That’s deceit. And it’s toxic, because someone will see it and believe that’s how they’re meant to look.

They’ll chase a ghost you conjured, and hate themselves for not being fake enough.

How pitiful, this hollow show, a mask you wear so men will glow. A sculpture carved from lies and shame, you trade yourself for fleeting fame.

You may think I judge. I don’t — I never could. I condemn the act, not you. I don’t hate, I pity.

And worse — you hide, you swear it’s true, while others ache, comparing to you. They chase a ghost that doesn’t exist, a cruel mirage in a world like this.

I can’t hate you. I know insecurity stings. But hiding behind edits for their validation, for applause that fades with the scroll — that’s a prison, not power.

The mirror may twist, the pixels may lie, but the saddest deceit is the self you deny.