walking biohazard, but like…hot.

bruh.

i get it—
i'm the human equivalent
of a cracked iphone screen
wrapped in crime-scene tape.
everyone sees me coming, like:
damn, here she goes again.

you wanna trauma dump for two hours
about your boyfriend—
that doesn’t seem to like you
and most definitely
isn’t about to buy the ring
but the second i'm like
"yo, my life is actually fucked, like
food-stamps-and-domestic-violence-court fucked,"
suddenly everyone’s checking notifications,
mumbling “that’s crazy,”
eyes glued to the floor,
hoping my trauma evaporates
before their own emotional labor arrives.

like babe
do you want me to lie
or do you want me to heal
pick one.

i’m the “text me if you need anything!” magnet—
except my needs aren’t
matcha-lattes-and-positive-vibes-shaped.
they look more like
real time,
real labor,
and actual fucking human conversation
that doesn’t sound like a scripted wellness insta plug.

girl.
i can’t talk yoga class drama
all like—
but have you tried “breathing?”
nah babe.
i tried surviving.
i tried telling the truth.
and y’all treated me like a fucking biohazard.

it’s wild—
i sit through your latest life drama,
literally taking notes
like i’m prepping an opening defense,
giving feedback—
asking questions—
fully engaged.
but you’re out here dodging eye contact
the minute my life sounds less like #momtok
and more like jerry springer?
cool.

but bro—
what do you want me to say?
i did not opt the fuck in either, my dude.
i did not choose this life.
this life chose me.

and it seems like—
everyone wants the vibe.
no one wants the smoke.

i get it—
i'm a walking lawsuit
and also oddly hot.
i've been through 911-level shit
and yet, still got jokes.
i make surviving this shit—
look standard.
look natural.

but every time i try to tell them—
i hurt from real shit.
ugly shit.
this is so hard.
it’s giving back—
“thoughts and prayers”
with a side of
—please shut the fuck up.*

nah.

truth is,
you like “strong” bitches in theory—
just not the shitty kanye-level-crazy
of a reality that made them that way.

so—
left to carry the trauma
every
single
day,
alone.

call me toxic,
hazardous,
radioactive,
fucking crazy
whatever—

you want my energy but not the context.
you want me filtered.
contained.
sanitized.

not angry.

and honestly?
i used to beg for that kind of love.
now?
i’d rather eat glass.

i’m not “heavy energy.”
bro.
i’m a living fucking crime scene
they never even attempted to solve.
it's ugly.

but liability?
nah.
i’m a weapon.