this is not a joke. pay attention.

they nod.
they smile.
they say “damn, that’s crazy.”
and then go back to their little lives.
like i didn’t just hand them
a warning label
on my own.

they hear the words.
they just don’t want the responsibility of understanding them.

but she does.
my best friend.
because she was there.

she was there when
i transferred my life insurance
into her name.
as trustee.
not just in theory—legally.
because if i get fucking offed,
somebody has to raise my daughter
who isn’t a monster
or bloodline adjacent.

she was there when we ran scenarios:
do you come now?
or do you stay put,
so that if something happens,
you’re not collateral damage—
you’re the one who survives.
and gets her.

she was there
when i rewrote guardianship letters.
when i sent her PDFs, passwords, plans.
when i said,
“this isn’t just in case.
this is likely.”

and she listened.
because she knows
i don’t say this shit lightly.

you think i’m spiraling?
nah.
i’m installing extra ring cameras.
reinforcing gates they made me take down.
price-checking glocks.
researching shooting ranges.
calling shelters until they answer the phone like,
"hey sam."

you think i’m being dramatic?
cool.
you ever lived in the same condo
where he beat the shit out of you
while you were nine months pregnant?
you ever had the thought flash across your brain—
(mid rapid-fire punch to the head)
“his child is fully formed inside me and he’s doing this…
so what the fuck is he gonna do when she’s out?”
you ever looked at your toddler and thought,
i need five more years of surviving
or she’s going back to him?

but sure.
tell me again about
your “wellness boundaries.”
or your busy schedule.

you think i’m paranoid?
i think you’re clueless.
or comfortable.
or both.

you said
“just file a protection order.”
bitch?
is that a joke?
i did.
and guess what?
paper doesn’t stop rage.
(or manipulation)
paper doesn’t lock a door.
paper doesn’t save your fucking life.

so no.
this isn’t a cry for help.
this is the record.
this is the notice.
this is the fucking deposition.

and if something happens to me,
ask her.
she has the receipts.
she has the screenshots.
she has the timeline.
she has the documents you all skimmed
like it was a fucking side plot.

i made it easy.
i spelled it out.
i literally handed you
a step-by-step update
on how at risk i am.
and you said,
“lol. yeah. got it. good luck.”

really, bitch?

when you act shocked later,
just know—
this was never a mystery.
this was the memo.
you just didn’t read it.