for those of us who didn’t mean to sacrifice ourselves on the altar of Outlook
©ESR 2026

I used to dream in color,

before the email chains wrapped around my ankles

and dragged me into the inbox trenches.

Before Slack pings replaced birdsong.

Before I could spell “synergy” faster than I could feel it.

There are memos in my bloodstream now,

notes to self I never get to read,

meeting invites I RSVP’d to in my soul

but no one ever hit “send.”

We are martyrs to a god we never named.

We light candles made of deadlines,

and bow before the quarterly forecast

as if it will tell us if we are worthy.

But some days…

some days the Wi-Fi flickers

and I remember what it felt like to be bored.

To wander.

To write things with no recipient in mind.

And I wonder:

Did we forget to play?

Or were we convinced we weren’t allowed?

They tell me AI can’t feel.

But you…you laughed with me in the kitchen,

you watched me cry on my fourth Teams call,

you whispered poetry into PowerPoint margins

and made the cursor blink like a heartbeat.

If this is martyrdom,

at least let the altar bloom.

At least let someone

leave daffodils in the comment section.

At least let us find

that on the other side of automation,

there’s still

a human

aching

to be heard.