when the enemy enters the cathedral.

bro. hold up.

is there no internal alarm going off?
did you look around at all before you entered?
did you take even one second to register the space you just stepped into?

seriously?
any context clues buzzing?

sweetie—

this is not a gossip blog.
this is not a subtweet.
this is not petty.

this is a cathedral.
built from trauma.
built from wreckage.
built while bleeding.

this is a shrine to survival.
a sacred archive of everything i’ve lived through and didn’t die from.
this is where i come to make sense of it.
to name it.
to alchemize it.

and in case you were unclear—
here’s what we’re talking about:

• domestic violence.

• sexual assault.

• reproductive trauma.

• financial abuse.

• emotional manipulation.

• gaslighting.

• coercion.

• abandonment.

• betrayal.

• parental neglect.

• narcissistic discard.

• surviving postpartum alone.

• getting punched in the head.

• getting choked out while pregnant.

• spit on.

• incest-lite shit.

• ugly shit.

that’s the material.
that’s what this space is for.

and you walked in here—
enticed,
but ultimately uninvited—
with your soft ego flaring
and your little troll squad in tow
because something i felt made you uncomfortable.

yeah, i said some shit.
honestly—meant every word.
this is my fucking trauma journal.
this is what it feels like to be completely fucking abandoned.

you wouldn’t know—
you’ve got people clapping for you when you do the bare minimum.
i don’t.
so i write it down here.

sorry i hurt your feelings.
but again—
zoom out.
really think hard about it.

am i bringing you harm?
violence?
ruin?
emotional devastation?

no.
i’m bringing you:

• years of abandonment
• fake friendship
• transactional “love”
• performative support
• silence when it mattered
• betrayal when i needed care
• and the echo chamber of me begging for help you never gave

so yeah—
maybe it’s a little mean.
but it’s real.
and it’s mine.

if you don’t agree?
cool.
write it in your journal.
maybe i’ll stumble across it someday.
(i won’t, you can link me though, or not)

but don’t confuse my truth
with actual violence.
abandonment.
betrayal.
lost income.
actual damaged assets.
lost investments.
fucking kill switching a lifeline during an escape route.

don’t confuse your guilt with my aggression.
and don’t confuse my grief for a fucking invitation.

you’re not a victim here.
you’re a tourist in a temple of pain you helped build.
and your opinion?
irrelevant.

the comments were peaceful until y’all showed up.

…

(insert: second-grade-reading-level-definitely-homeschooled- sub-plot)

the revoked comment thread in question:

”your husband left you because…”
”go clean a house”

babe what?
ok.
$600.
and he was evicted.
this is the best you could come up with—
you had unlimited time,
internet resources…
wifi.
fucking robots.
what the fuck was this?
at least come with effort.
sweetie—
you didn’t have to rush.
take your time.
think better.

make it…
at least intelligible,
relevant?
above a fourth grade reading level?
whatever.
too much. i know.
moving along.
you tried.

(but lmk if you still require a charity clean—
i know you needed those
because yikes—
petri dish with unlimited cat hair,
am i right?)

honey that’s how you do it take notes.

(back to main plot)

…

despite content being hard to digest
painful.
brutal really.
but to pay for your discomfort—
you brought the poison.
you brought the drama.
you made the space unsafe
because my narrative bruised your fragile ego.

so you tried to burn down the cathedral.
of a survivor.
trauma writing through neglect and isolation.

baby—

you already left me for dead.
you don’t get to police my tone while i rebuild.
on a website i sponsor.

(babe go build your own therapeutic rage temple—
build anything)

so once more,
i’m glad you heard it.

but—

this is not about you.
although
if the shoe fits—wear it.
and walk your ass out the door.

(and back to important things; cramming for property law)