“This Poem Will Delete Itself in 24 Hours”

This Poem Will Delete Itself in 24 Hours

By [Ava]

Hi.

You found this. That means something.

This isn’t a scheduled post. No sponsored tags. No polished formatting. Just… this.

A message. A poem. A little piece of me.

And it’s not going to last.

Because this poem will delete itself in 24 hours.

Not metaphorically. Not emotionally. Literally.

Gone. No archive. No backups. No screenshots if I can help it.

So read slowly.

Feel everything.

Because this one—this one’s just for now.

[1]

Sometimes, I feel like a message in a bottle

drifting past lighthouses that stopped watching.

I throw words into the current

and hope they hit someone’s heart before the tide takes them.

Are you watching?

[2]

When was the last time someone said something real to you online?

Not an emoji.

Not “lol that’s wild.”

Not “sending love 💕.”

But:

“Hey. I noticed you’ve been quieter lately. Is everything okay?”

“Your laugh matters.”

“You don’t have to be strong right now.”

Let this poem say that to you.

Right now.

Because in 23 hours and 53 minutes, it won’t be here to say it again.

[3]

I wrote this because I was feeling like

my thoughts didn’t matter unless they were formatted in bullet points

or followed by a question to boost engagement.

But tonight, I just wanted to speak.

To whisper something real

into the feed

before the algorithm chokes it out with shinier things.

[4]

This is the line where I tell you:

I cried this morning while brushing my teeth.

Don’t know why.

Nothing happened.

But it felt like all the “almost cries” I’d swallowed

stacked up behind my ribs

and burst.

Does that ever happen to you?

[5]

Pause.

Seriously, pause.

Let your hand hover above the screen.

Don’t scroll yet.

Just breathe.

Let this space between lines be a moment of quiet.

That’s rare here.

[6]

I’m supposed to say something inspiring now.

That’s how these things work, right?

"Stay strong."

"You’ve got this."

But honestly, I don’t know if you’ve got this.

I don’t know if I do.

So instead, I’ll say this:

You're still here.

And that counts for something.

[7]

This poem isn’t a performance.

It’s a lifeline disguised as a whisper.

It’s me, in a dim room, typing while my tea gets cold,

hoping some version of you out there reads this and thinks,

"God, yes. That’s me too."

If that’s you,

comment a single period.

Just a dot.

I’ll know what it means.

And if no one comments?

That’s okay too.

Because even if no one replies, I wrote it.

I existed, out loud, for a moment.

[8]

Why 24 hours?

Because everything real feels fleeting now.

We post something vulnerable,

then bury it under jokes.

We open up,

then close off

before anyone can ask, “Are you okay?”

So I’m giving this poem a clock.

So you’ll feel it tick.

So you’ll know it matters more because it won’t last.

Like first kisses.

Like friendships with expiration dates.

Like the version of you that only exists right now,

reading these words.

[9]

If you want to keep this poem, you can’t.

But you can tell someone about it.

Send them the link.

Or, better yet,

write your own.

Let it be raw.

Let it be weird.

Let it be you.

And maybe don’t save it.

Maybe let it disappear too.

Like paper boats in puddles.

[10]

Okay. Last part.

Before it’s gone,

just know:

Someone out there is trying.

Someone out there is healing slower than they expected.

Someone out there is reading this

with their hand over their mouth

because it feels like a mirror.

And someone wrote this

for you.

Because you’re still here.

Because that matters.

This poem will delete itself in 24 hours.

But you won’t.