slam poetry: liar, cheater, drug user, defendant

wait.

nah.
nah nah nah nah nah nah.

they made the
coked-out,
side-questing,
court-dodging absentee father
the fucking “policy owner.”
of our family insurance.
of our child’s future.
change the fucking beneficiary
of the policy i’m paying for—
while he was
literally
running a second family
like a fucking living
polygamist in the
goddamn Old Testament??

LMFAO.

stfu.

yo.
and they wanna
call me “emotional.”
babe i’m not emotional.
i’m fucking prophetic.
this was negligence
with a side of fucking malice.
this was corporate malpractice
disguised as
shitty customer service.
this was “oops, he’s your emergency contact!”
while he was literally
the
fucking
emergency.

they handed this man
my financial legacy
via his fucking
goddamn secret office plug
like it was
a fucking vape pen
and said “sign here, king”
while the restraining order
was still fucking warm.

god fucking dammit.

like bro.
be fucking serious.
for goddamn once—
you knew he was
a liar
a cheater
a drug user
a FUCKING defendant—
and you STILL made him the owner?

that’s not an oversight.
that’s a fucking write-off.
that’s “if she dies, we profit.”
that’s “let’s keep it in his name, he seems chill.”
that’s “we didn’t think she’d go to law school.”

they watched him
abandon his goddamn kid,
bleed me dry,
drain my life savings mid-pregnancy,
fucking relapse,
move in with
someone else’s fucking children
AND STILL
had the corporate audacity to say:

“but he’s our client, not you.”

fuck your client.
he’s a one-man
war crime violation
with a custody fucking warrant.

they placed my
goddamn postpartum policies
in the hands
of a man
who couldn’t even place
his own child in a fucking car seat.
a man who thought
drug testing was fucking optional
and that cohabitating
with a new girlfriend mid‑felony bond
was “not that deep.”

meanwhile i’m paying premiums
on time
while folding tiny socks
and dodging burner accounts.
and they STILL never called to ask
“hey uh… is this guy stable?”

NAH BITCHES
spoiler:
he FUCKING wasn’t.

he was doing lines
while i was doing fucking bedtime.
he was using my social
our goddamn child’s fucking social—
to fund new furniture for his fake-ass texas life
while i was fighting
to make a trauma plan
with the fucking pediatrician.

and they just let it happen.
they said
“ownership means he has rights.”

so,
thanks goblin.
you specifically.
for the late-night hangs,
with my fucking husband—
the constant calls during pregnancy
and once we relocated—
all fucking postpartum—
the constant boundary breaches—
thanks for setting up
my husband
as the owner
of fucking everything—
while i was in the fucking ER
GIVING BIRTH.

while he was
unemployed.
and fucking spiraling.
at your goddamn apartment.

REPEATEDLY.

NICE.

thanks for doing
fucking ANYTHING
in my goddamn best interest.

shit.

baby,

that’s negligence.
that’s misconduct.
that’s dumb as fuck.

nah.

ownership without oversight
means you have blood on your hands
when it all collapses.

you let a crash dummy
own the fucking car.
you handed him the wheel
and then blamed me
when it FUCKING exploded.

so let’s be clear:
this is fucking shit-show.
this is a conspiracy of silence
and a paper trail of goddamn cowardice.

you knew.
you knew he was fucked up.
you all knew.
and you bet on my silence.
you bet he’d fucking kill us.
with violence
or goddamn poverty.

bad bet, bitch.

fuck you.