They are the ones who wrote the messages. I am the only one who controls them. 10 despicable fingers with long lengthy digits and secrets hidden under their skin. 10 that are filled with venom, but provide no antidote. 10 quick taps, message sent. From behind, my ‘friends’ read them, but they deny involvement.

Their tactics are well known. They send hideous messages to others. They swipe left and swipe right and they clutch the reader in a chokehold and tear down their self-esteem with their sharp nails and never quit their destruction. This is how they thrive.

Let one stop sending the hate, they’d all crumble like their victims, each with their phones in their hands. Hurt, hurt, hurt, they whisper when typing. I scream.

When I am filled with remorse and too ashamed to hurt, when I have accepted what I have done, then I will look at the fingers. When there is no more denial in me. 10 who can’t be blamed. 10 who will never forget what they’ve done. 10 who has caused lives to be taken and taken.