You won’t find a single negative Tweet of Facebook update. Only happy things, a momentous occasion or another achievement that would make my Asian parents proud.
You won’t read about the relationship status changed for the hundredth time, or the fact that I can’t find help to fight the monsters inside my head.
Only photogenic food make it onto my Instagram feed; sensual egg yolk porn or foam art atop the coffee that I never drink.
No pictures of lonely dinners or the instant noodles and chocolate bars that I shouldn’t eat.
Two sausage legs by the beach, but not the price that I pay to afford the trip.
A bouquet for our anniversary and romantic candle-lit dates; but never the tear-streaked faces and arguments late into the night, two lovers hurting each other with words sharper than knives.
You won’t find snap-chats of body parts that I am unhappy about, nor a selfie without any make-up on.
No screen caps of the letter written to a lover once upon a time; the only difference now is that the tenses are all wrong.
No regram of the shiny, new girl he had found to replace me.
Over 3000 followers but a best friend who lives 5 minutes away, ignored.
A hundred right swipes on Tinder in a 10km radius, but a boyfriend whom I have to bend over backwards to impress.
Photos of family trips and homecooked meals; but no one sees that right after the shutter clicks, everyone turns back to their phones, more interested in scrolling through the lives of other people than to talk to each other.
So many connections but not a single one genuine.
Validation and self worth measured by the number of likes, retweets, followers and shares.
Endless pings and buzz from the synthetic glow of various screens,
but still so lonely.
But I will continue to paint the pictures that you want to see,
Hide the truth, pretend to be somebody else but me.
So that the rest of the world would buy the lies,
of my perfectly curated social media life.
I wish I was the person my social media says I am.