light & bullshit.

(to the peace-and-love parasite formerly known as “friend”)

🖤🖤🖤

namaste, bitch.
you didn’t build a yoga business—
you co-opted mine,
slept in late,
hid behind incense and passive aggression,
and still got praised
like you were the second coming
of Shiva in lululemon.

you weren’t a healer.
you were a white-girl burnout
in a bralette
avoiding accountability
openly lazy—
with sage smoke and soft talk.
you didn’t clean shit—
physically, emotionally, spiritually.

you tagged along for the rise:
the retreats,
the trainings,
the international clout
i paid for
with blood,
sweat,
and american express.
you reaped the benefits,
then cried sabotage
when asked to contribute
literally anything.

your only skill?
being palatable to basic white women
who mistook
your avoidant little whisper voice
for wisdom.

while i negotiated contracts,
ran ads,
booked flights,
taught heavy shit,
kept the lights on,
and ran circles
around your empty-ass aura.

you used me.
not just money—my loyalty.
free rides:
europe. asia. africa.
every room i let you into—
you couldn’t even bring friendship.

you said i was “too intense.”
i was building an empire.
you said i was “too angry.”
i was compensating for your lack of drive—
while dodging men trying to drag me to hell.

translation: labor isn’t your aesthetic, babe.

let’s not pretend you struggled.
upper-middle-class.
rich daddy.
no real trauma
you didn’t chase for aesthetics.
and still—
still—
you did nothing.
not because you couldn’t.
but because you didn’t want to.

you cosplayed “healer”
while i played crisis response team,
brand manager,
and emotional landfill.
i should’ve billed you hourly.
for the fake friendship
you dragged for years.
(i meant it bitch, clearly)

let me invest in you—
while you gave nothing back.

you failed upward on my wingtips,
mistook my loyalty for weakness,
nah, babe.
it was a fucking bailout.

you had everything—
intellect, support, access—
and chose to weaponize helplessness
while surrounded by every resource on earth.

i cleaned your house.
repeatedly.
i flew in for your baby shower,
your bachelorette,
your wedding.
held your sad-girl stories.
held your kid.
and when it was my turn?
postpartum. alone. broke. bleeding.
you went full ghost mode.

even when i was down the street
surviving hell with a newborn—
after showing up for everything—
you brought nothing.
not a “need anything?”
not a visit.
nada.
zip.

i sponsored your little life like a nonprofit—
except you never turned a profit.
not emotionally.
not energetically.
and sure as hell not intellectually.

you brought zero return.
couldn’t even cross a zip code
for my kid’s first birthday.
after my partner deuced.
no text.
no excuse.
just absence.

because you’re not busy—
you’re selfish.
entitled.
weak.

you built nothing.
just a sob story and a house too filthy to fix.

honestly?
it gives white girl pathetic.

om shanti bitch.

🖤

✶ filed under: false prophets in flowy pants
✶ see also: tarot as weapon, free rides, fake enlightenment
✶ keywords: healer-for-hire, spiritual squatter, the audacity of the unfocused