murder math

i’ve been doing math my whole fucking life.
not algebra.
not calculus.
murder math.
survival calculus.
the invisible equation you run before you open your mouth.

if i say this, do i die?
if i enforce child support—does he snap?
if i tell the truth—does he drive across the country?
if i stop pretending i was ever in love;
that maybe even it was never that deep for me—
do i end up a true crime?

because here’s the real equation:
half of femicide victims are killed after they leave.
seventy-five percent were stalked beforehand.

and still—i see the numbers.

so i do the math.
i always do the fucking math.
every time i speak.
every time i post.
every time i call them what they are.
every time i choose to be happy.

and still, i feel it—
right behind me.

people say i’m glowing now.
they say i look peaceful.
that single motherhood suits me.
that i’m brave.

and all i can think is:

this is me at my most killable.