why do people act like i owe them shit?
serious question.
not even fake-deep.
just, like,
real talk.
why does everyone expect you to ride for them,
forever, no matter how many times
they try to throw you under a fucking greyhound?
i mean—be for real.
like—baby, what part of “i don’t owe you” didn’t you read
in the terms and conditions?
because honestly,
i’m the last honest bitch left standing.
never snaked a friend,
never cheated,
never staged a betrayal.
i’m not even messy unless you hand me a mop.
i say what’s real,
even when it burns me.
even when you clown it.
but some of y’all?
y’all want full coverage,
no premium.
protection,
discretion,
the whole witness protection package.
all while acting like i’m disposable.
like i’m actual garbage.
tell me why—
after you disappear mid-crisis,
leave me on read,
turn survival into a spectator sport—
i’m supposed to keep your skeletons safe?
you think i want to be out here
writing trauma diary posts on the internet?
nah, babe.
i’d rather have someone to call at 3 a.m.
without feeling like i’m live-streaming my own public execution.
i actually believed we were on the same team,
but turns out—you’re out here
“accidentally” ghosting me while i’m drowning,
and then surprised when i start narrating from the deep end.
y’all create the content,
called me crazy—
and then left me with the fallout,
but hey—don’t talk about it, right?
how embarrassing.
it’s wild how the worst offenders
are always the most terrified of the truth.
like, my dude,
you didn’t want your profile in my memoir?
maybe don’t audition for the role of the monster.
here’s the reality:
i never out anybody who keeps it concrete.
but you pivot to the opposition?
watch me bleed,
throw a rock?
literally turn on me?
then expect me to sign a non-disclosure?
that’s not loyalty.
that’s you trying to copyright my silence.
that’s manipulation, babe.
and not even clever.
newsflash:
i don’t owe you secrecy.
i don’t owe you invisibility.
if you want safety,
maybe offer some.
the ones who made me promise discretion—
but dipped when i needed backup?
now losing their shit
because my side of the story—
exists?
are you serious??
babe—
y’all don’t care when i’m actually—
fighting for my life,
but write a lil art-piece about it to
ease my own trauma?
and now i’m disrespectful?
baby, it’s not me embarrassing you.
it’s you.
i just own my shit.
the minute you leave me for dead,
ignore every “yo, i’m drowning” text,
decide your comfort is worth more than my life—
you think i owe you silence?
dedication?
a carefully manicured reputation?
LMFAO.
like…no.
i promise you this—
i don’t lie to manipulate.
i never out anyone who keeps it 100.
but you come for me,
ghost me,
break the contract,
break the code?
then start freaking the fuck out
when i say what happened out loud?
please.
don’t ask for a pact you’re not built for.
don’t expect silence after abandonment.
don’t beg for “discretion” while you’re—
actively fucking me over.
that’s not loyalty, baby.
that’s self-preservation—for you.
you want protection, offer protection.
you want my silence, tell the truth.
otherwise?
nah.
i don’t owe you a fucking thing.
not my voice.
not my trauma.
not a single,
solitary secret.
so yes.
i will keep writing.
i will keep healing.
i will keep telling the truth.
and if you’re embarrassed?
maybe next time,
don’t give me a story worth telling.
✨
