blessed & highly fucking useless

*aka how to bag a life upgrade off someone else's emergency, then go quiet when it's time to pay it back

you openly saw the bruises.
you asked the question.
said your bestie clocked,
“that doesn’t look like falling down the stairs.”
and then promptly
turned your attention to my square footage—
that might be vacant,
as i escape attempted murder.

as i panicked,
postpartum,
with a black eye
and no plan.
financially fucked
from insideous level abuse—
you looked at the blood
and saw an opportunity.
a life upgrade.
no deposit.
no accountability.
just vibes.
like my trauma was a lease deal y’all couldn’t pass up.

i fled the state.
you fled a rent deposit.
you got the condo.
your bestie got the second room.
you brought your boyfriend.
multiple dogs.
your damage.

i brought silence.
a disrespectful discount.
and the delusion
that friendship meant something.

spoiler:
it didn’t.

you got a whole-ass life upgrade.
for less.
off mine falling apart.

i paid the invoices.
you left the mess.
and then acted
like you did me—
a fucking favor.

then you fucked up my job.
that kept me afloat.
five years.
flexible.
they dropped me because you
kept switching the day.
because you gave—
not a single fuck.

no apology.
just:
“can i get a bigger cut of your business?”

of my business.
the one you disrespected
repeatedly—
for you and your bestie.
(the fucking audacity, truly)
while i was fighting for my fucking life.
you weren’t already benefiting from enough.
and i let you.
because i thought you were a real one.

but babe,

when i asked for one thing—
a simple statement—
your bestie,
who saw the bruises,
ghosted.
you got “anxious.”

really?????

not anxious about the abuse.
not anxious about me getting killed.
anxious… about being involved.

funny,
you weren’t anxious about getting involved in my discounted real estate
you weren’t anxious when there was a garage to fill with your shit,
like a free storage unit—
like
a deal to bag,
a friend to upgrade.
on my assets.
while i got punched in the face.

and you remind me to say thank you.

baby—

you were just allergic to accountability.
or showing the fuck up.
(and that will be reflected in your future)

meanwhile you paid rent late.
repeatedly.
no fines.
no overhead.
nothing.
because you deserve it all,
babe.
and i deserve to die
for thinking you were a friend.

but you had time to summon
your boyfriend’s dad’s truck
to rescue backyard twigs.
meanwhile i couldn’t get help
hauling the couch
you shoved in my garage,
so your bestie could finally afford my zip code.

you knew i couldn’t pay a sitter.
you knew i was in law school.
you knew my mom had a brain bleed.
my dad was dangerous.
my ex was still lurking,
financially choking me out.

you knew i had no safety net.
just a literal prayer
and pure will to survive.

and still—you said:
“i got you.”
then dipped.

your bestie?
the one who clocked the abuse before i even delivered—
wouldn’t even text back.
i asked if she could help,
she said, lol sorry.

you both moved in on my lowest moment,
lived good off my panic,
then left me on read
when reciprocity knocked.

you got to feel helpful.
you got the optics.
you got content.

but when it came time to actually
show up?

it was just me.
with a baby.
and the ghost of your promises
fucking haunting me.

you gave me a used hoodie.
i gave you a home.
you handed over a parka—in may.
i gave you profit share and income.

you said,
“if anything ever happened to you,
i’d raise your daughter.”
babe,
you won’t even babysit
so i can make class.
when it costs you nothing.

and it will literally save our lives.

you cried about how hard your day was
while i was out here
post-trauma,
solo-parenting,
struggling to buy food,
no support,
just missing law books
missing furniture
your bullshit—
and pure fucking adrenaline.

and you still made it about you.

what the fuck is that.
really,
who raised you.

(honestly,
i wouldn’t know—
never met them)

girl—

hope you’re surrounded by real ones.
you’ll need them one day.

hope you don’t drown.

…

p.s.

but honestly,

your best friend uses people,
your man seems indifferent,

and—

girl.

you.
can.
rot.