You buried your friend—but you learned nothing.

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The Girl You Buried

You added her to a group chat dedicated to destroying another girl. Why? To keep her in the loop? Or to prove to the world that death doesn’t change your cruelty?

Just five weeks ago, you stood in black. Crying. Posting sad quotes. Holding candles. Wearing Kuromi T-shirts. Mourning Melody.

You knew what happened to her.

You knew what she went through.

You knew what you did.

You cried. Maybe you even felt it.

But here we are.

And you’ve gone and done the unthinkable. Again.

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You Created a Hate Group About My Daughter

That’s right.

You formed a group chat with one purpose: to hate, to mock, to isolate, and to emotionally obliterate my daughter.

Eight of you. Eight children who should know better—especially after watching what impact unkindness had on your “friend.”

And to make it all more revolting, you dragged Melody back in.

You added a deceased girl.

The one who missed months of school because she was a constant target.

The one whose pain you now perform but never understood.

The one you buried.

You added her name to the list of people who were supposed to hate my daughter.

Why?

To feel powerful?

To pretend she would approve?

To weaponise her death?

It’s hard to decide what’s more chilling—your malice, or your numbness to it.

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This Isn’t Just “Drama.” This Is Legacy Abuse.

You grieved for Melody with candlelight and crocodile tears—but you’ve become the very thing that tormented her.

You used Melody’s name—her very identity—as a stamp of approval for your cruelty.

You didn’t honour her memory. You desecrated it.

You used her to validate a group dedicated to hating another girl. You became everything she ran from. And then you used her name.

You didn’t learn a thing from her death.

You just used it as cover.

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You Drew Horns On My Daughter’s Head

You drew blood.

You turned her image into a demon.

And all because she dared to recommend skincare, or react when you stepped on her brand-new shoes — shoes I saved up for so long to buy.

You turned minor human interactions into fuel for hate.

You made her pay for breathing.

But the darkest act wasn’t the drawing, or the insults, or the exclusion.

It was adding Melody.

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My Daughter Is Still Alive. But You Want Her Gone.

You’ve made that clear.

When you isolate a child, when you form groups to laugh at them, when you pile on—knowing how it ended last time—you are saying one thing:

You want her gone too.

You may not say it aloud, but your actions scream it.

You want her out of the chat.

Out of the school.

Out of existence.

You don’t care how she feels.

You don’t care what she carries.

You only care that the crowd is still clapping for you.

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But My Daughter Is Still Here. And She Knows the Truth.

She knows she didn’t do anything to deserve this.

She knows cruelty when she sees it.

She knows betrayal when she feels it.

And she knows how to survive.

You will not bury her the way you buried Melody—with silence and cowardice and revisionist grief.

We will speak the truth while your hands are still dirty.

And you will remember that your cruelty has a body count.

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