avert eye contact with this entry in advance.

okay.
so this part is hard to say.
not because i doubt it.
but because saying it out loud
makes people fucking dodge eye contact.
and they should fucking twitch.
i’m not here to comfort anyone
out of their denial.

so here it is.
this is just my survival instinct talking.
and that bitch
has never been wrong.

in my gut—
the part of me that’s kept me alive
through some unthinkable shit—
i believe he intended to kill me.

✨ like—not a fight.
not a “got out of hand.”
i mean kill me.
and make it look like an accident.

because i had become less useful.
because he had a new supply.
because he knew
he could fucking get away with it.

i’ve never said
that shit before about anyone.
and i’ve dealt with
some violent-ass men.
but this wasn’t rage.
this was calculated fucking disposal.

and it was fucking terrifying.
this was true crime channel energy.
dateline with my headshot + spousal homicide.

i saw it.
in his face.
in his glare.
when he spit
in my eyes and mouth.
when he jumped on my belly—
pregnant belly—
to literally
choke
the
scream
out of my body.
like he wanted the air gone.
like my breath denigrated him.
like he couldn’t stand
the sound of me fucking surviving.

and the sickest part?
i truly believe
he would’ve pulled that shit off
the grieving husband bit.
military.
ivy league.
golden boy.
perfect fucking narrative.

i had been so fucking sick.
no support.
isolated.
and he was already
rewriting the fucking story.
already performing to other women.
already angling for sympathy and status.

babe—
look at this tragic veteran widow.
america’s fucking sweetheart.

no one would've questioned it.
so i told my mom the night he strangled me.
i called her and said it straight.
because if i died—
someone
needed to know
exactly what the fuck happened.

he had already moved on emotionally.
already securing his next plug.
already cashing in on my labor.
my businesses.
my home.
my life.

so yeah—i ran.
we ran.
two weeks after birth.
in a snowstorm.
my mom packed up my whole damn condo.
we left everything but the baby and the dog.
because that’s how fucking serious it was.

yo—i know
the way predators
look at you
when they’re done
pretending to love you.
i know what it means
when someone
who swore to fucking protect you
looks at you
like a fucking liability.

and babe—
i’m not writing this for sympathy.
i’m writing it for record.

because the truth is—
he never loved me.
he was just harvesting.

and when the harvest ran dry,
he was ready to bury the rest.

that’s not bullshit.
that’s the fucking autopsy—
with my name written all over it.

yeah—
we lived.
barely.

🪦
the end.
or what was supposed to be.
but i had other plans.