Trolls Poem by Jessie Nunan

They don't live under bridges anymore—
not the mossy kind, not the fairytale kind.
They hide in comment sections,
in glowing screens at 2 a.m.,
where words are cheap
and empathy is optional.

They knock, not with fists,
but with sentences sharpened just enough
to sting, not enough to bleed—
because bleeding would mean consequence.

They collect reactions like trophies,
each reply a spark,
each spark a fire
they never have to stand inside.

You'll know them by the way
they never really see you—
only the outline,
only the surface,
only the version of you
they've decided is easier to tear apart.

They speak loudly,
but listen never.
They laugh quickly,
but feel little.

And yet—
behind the noise,
behind the bite,
behind the endless need to provoke—
there's something small,
and restless,
and hungry for attention
it doesn't know how to ask for.

So they build storms
out of strangers' peace,
and call it power.

But you—
you are not the bridge they haunt.
You are the river moving past them,
untouched,
unstoppable,
carrying something real
they will never quite understand.