✶ shit—it’s not defamation if it’s fucking true ✶

this ain’t defamation.
it’s fucking documentation.
because baby,
guess what?

every
fucking
record
backs
this shit.

every message proves it.
every fucking spiral,
crash,
venmo,
stalker,
fucking drug binge,
goddamn vanishing-act,
poof—
reappearance,
is
on
the
fucking
record.

—

these bitches?
not complex.
they’re a fucking
tiny car of whore-tastic
full on fucking blow clowns—
with crashouts
like a goddamn
coke-spiral
the second
the fucking bag
hits the goddamn dashboard.
(takes it up the nose…together)
shit,
it fucks like a weapon.
and plays dead
the moment
the fucking lights come on.

shit.
and me?
you know what the fuck
i’m allowed to do?

—

…

feel it.
say it.
publish it.
fucking survive it.

because
i didn’t stalk fucking anyone.
i didn’t beat anyone.
i didn’t do fucking drugs
with somebody’s fucking husband
i didn’t hide behind
burner ips
or blow
or private texts
while handing off
my baby to a fucking traitor.

nah.

i’m honest.
i’m not a fucking addict.
i’m definitely not a fucking whore.

but nah,

i survived that shit
in real time
and stitched my own
goddamn ribs back together
with grad school notes
and fucking court docs—
while these
dusty,
cum-brained fucking liars
hid behind silence.

—

you think this is damaging?
you think this
hurts your little reputation?
good.

because guess what?
six months ago,
i thought it was
all the war on fucking terror.
the goddamn bombs.
the missing fucking body part—
the dead fucking dad—
i thought he loved me.
at least enough
to not nearly
give me fucking syphilis
i thought she was my family.
i thought y’all were fucking human.
and it took
one stupid,
dumb smug bitch
mocking me
through a fucking life insurance policy
to blow
the whole goddamn thing open.

—

so,
now i know.
you were all part
of the same diseased-ass little machine.
and i’m not going
to court
for calling a parasite
a parasite.
you don’t get to
stab me in the fucking back
legally and metaphorically
and then fucking
silence me.

—

you want peace?
you should’ve left me alive.
but now i’ve got records.
and rage.
and a fucking platform.

so fuck your hiding.
fuck your shame.
and fuck the idea
that this is too brutal.
y’all didn’t give
a single fuck
if we died—

and this shit?
it’s not even fucking close.