i’m the problem? it’s me?

(sweetie— the call is coming from inside your search bar)

you didn’t care when i was on the floor.
literally.
on. the. floor.
but write it down?
oh, now it’s giving… concern.

you had no issue kicking me out with a baby,
in january,
in the dark.
but oh no, not the lowercase poem.
not the metaphor.

bro—
you were bold when you screamed in my face,
blackout drunk,
while i had already been kicked.
but now i’m the threat?
because i have a website?
(girly come on—shit has been here for a decade)

you laughed when i was raped.
minimized it.
forgot it on purpose.
please.
you weren’t spiraling when you did it.
you’re spiraling now because i said it
where people can hear it.

and it all sounds ugly—
doesn’t it?

cuz baby.
be so serious.
no, actually—be so clinically evaluated.
by someone licensed.

and let’s really talk about it:
you didn’t mind the story.
you just wanted editorial control.

(this is how abuse thrives, in silence)

you wanted the blackout parts redacted.
the impact cropped out.
you wanted your cruelty framed like a “misunderstanding”
and my survival labeled a “crazy bitch revival.”

but i said: no thanks.
i’m the narrator now.

and the part that really kills you?
i never said your name.
never gave a date.
never posted the receipts.

and yet you knew.

you knew.
your obsessed-ass girl knew.
your lil broken conscience knew.
your mom probably always knew.

and hey—

did your wife see?
how about the facebook friends?
did they connect the little dots?

shit.

because sweetheart—
guilt is loud,
and shame has a wifi connection.

you don’t want privacy.
you want immunity.
you want to behave recklessly
and break me in silence.

and the second that failed—
the second you realized they might actually believe me—
you pulled the classic: flailing.
“she’s crazy.”
“she’s obsessed.”
“she’s abusing me with… adjectives.”

just admit it.

you hate that someone might ask questions
you can’t answer without stuttering.

but babe—
i burn loudly.
and for y’all
that like to hide in the dark—
i’m documenting.
i’m organizing the chaos you left behind
and turning it into a warning sign for whoever’s next.

and if that threatens you?

good.

so let’s say it again, for the lurkers in the back:
if i’m the problem,
(crazy, a liar, obsessed)
why are you all still here?

you didn’t care when i was bleeding.
you cared when someone fucking noticed.

you don’t want peace.
you want plausible deniability

so sure.
call me mental.
call me a fucking pyscho.
call me whatever the fuck makes you feel like the hero
of the story you ruined.

just remember:

you came here.
you typed in my name.
you clicked the link.
you scrolled.
you read it twice.
you screenshotted it.
you cried about it.
you kept coming back.

and i didn’t even @ you.

so if i’m the problem—
if i’m the toxic one—
if i’m the “demon” and the “liar” and the “crazy bitch”—

why can’t you look away?