fuck you for watching me fight for my life.

fuck you
for seeing me in crisis
and calling it "inspiring,"
like my survival inspired your moral clarity.

fuck you
for looking at the chaos i was born into—
the bruises, the calls to 911 from strangers,
the begging adults who weren't my parents to save me—
and just nodding like it was tragic backstory,
not active fucking neglect.

fuck you
for knowing i spent my childhood
waiting on sidewalks for someone else's mom,
because mine couldn't be bothered to leave work.
for watching me explain how my own mother left me
with the same people she knew were bruising babies,
and replying:
"tragic, really."

fuck you
for acting like you gave a shit
when i called you about the strangulation—
when i told you yeah, you’re right—
he gave me those black eyes.
because i knew, i fucking knew,
he was going to kill me,
and your only response was:
"oh my god, dad did that too."
or ”wow i’m here, just not to write a statement.”

fuck you
for every friend who saw the bruises,
saw the marks on my pregnant body,
saw me literally get beaten right in front of them,
and decided silence was safer.
that it was still ok to charge me extra.

fuck you
for hearing that i fled a predator
with a baby, my car my husband fucked, and $300 in my pocket
and telling me how "strong" i was
instead of sending help.

fuck you
for pretending you didn't see
when i literally couldn't afford food.
and fuck you twice
for thinking i'd ever let that affect my kid.
i lived on coffee and spliffs
and pure fucking spite
so she would never feel hunger.

omg, you’re so hot.
lol. yeah. it’s called fumes
and financial abuse bitch.

fuck you
for sitting comfortably
in your uninfected, calm house
texting me about gardening
and drama
and shit your mom said,
while i quietly starved,
quietly panicked,
quietly drowned in paperwork and debt and desperation.

fuck you
for watching me do survival math
in real time—
childcare i couldn't afford,
classes i couldn't miss,
money i didn't have,
help that never fucking arrived—
and responding with silence
or shallow fucking anecdotes
about someone else's dumb-ass boyfriend drama.

fuck you
for seeing me on the second floor,
literally suffocating in heat,
and telling me you "left the ac unit" in my garage,
like it was generosity.
when you knew exactly who would have to
do the math on how to carry it upstairs,
alone,
with a toddler—
and you still congratulated yourself.

fuck you
for pretending you were my friend,
pretending you cared,
pretending you were anything more than another bystander
hoping the fire would burn itself out before you had to get involved.

fuck you
for letting me tell you
that i was about to physically collapse
and choosing that moment to say,
"actually, i have dinner plans."

fuck you
for all the times
i explained exactly what i needed,
and you treated it like optional listening.

fuck you
for treating my life
like a show you didn't feel like finishing.

fuck you
for hearing emergencies—
actual fucking emergencies—
and deciding your comfort was more important
than my survival.

fuck you
for being part of the reason
i had to learn, from infancy,
that nobody was coming.

fuck you
for pretending you didn't know
exactly how close i came,
over and over and over,
to not making it.

fuck you
for making survival something i had to do alone,
then clapping
when i made it to shore.

fuck you,
especially,
for calling that applause love.

fuck you
for all the times you saw exactly what was happening
and chose to pretend you couldn’t.

fuck you, genuinely,
for making it this clear:

y’all would’ve let me fucking die.
you did.

fuck you for watching me fight for my life.