nah, i went public because private almost killed me 💫

why i’m saying it out loud
even when my hands
still fucking shake.

—

here’s the savage truth, babe.

i didn’t go looking
for a fucking courtroom.
i didn’t wake up
craving “charges.”
i told one
simple,
boring,
bureaucratic fact:
i have a restraining order.
please note it.
please just keep our file.
please don’t provoke him.

and somehow
now—
i’m the fucking liar?
while every dude
with a badge
hit me with the same
fucked-ass script:
“but he’s a vet. ✨
was it really that bad?”

yeah bro.
it was that bad.
and honestly?
sometimes i do forget.
but then i get
fucking flashes
of my goddamn
skull smacking the
wood floor
and suddenly,
i remember it
better than i
remember my own
fucking birthday.
yo.
i know, but
really picture that shit.
i was pregnant.
the only reason
it stopped was
because i made sure
there were fucking
witnesses. ✨
not remorse.
not growth.
an audience.

—

you wanna know
why i’m public now?
because silence
is where women
go to fucking die.
because my
“support system”
is a goddamn
ghost town with
a fucking ring camera.
nah,
no dad.
no brother.
bro, not even
an ex checking in
caped the fuck up.
nope.
just me and a baby
and a stack of bills
this man fucking
engineered.

✨

baby,
i tried grace.
i tried patience.
i tried “he’s struggling.”
but meanwhile?
he fucking promised
not to economically abandon us.
then immediately began
the goddamn threats,
followed by abruptly
economically fucking abandoning us.
liquidated what i built.
stole the value in the fucking car.
left me with all the debt.
enrolled himself in the gi bill
he swore was “for our family.”
while i used my
whole fucking tuition refund
to finance his
northwestern mutual
fucking pipe dream.
lol.
didn’t even get the
baby’s fucking life policy.
and i’m still here
arguing for $87/week
because he refused
to fucking comply
when it was $150.
do you hear
how goddamn
insane that is?
eighty. seven. fucking. dollars.
the price of a
mediocre-ass
dinner
and
two fucking liars.

—

let’s talk papers
since
everyone loves
a fucking
signed document
more than
a goddamn bruise.

💫

✶ dependent pay?
i jumped through
hoops,
undoing social security
bullshit,
getting all
that baby info
so he could
get that bump—
weird how
it never physically reaches
the fucking dependent.

✶ the child policy
i started from
a fucking hospital bed?
vanished into
“oh, sorry, not yours—
try another premium.”

✶ cross-country relocations x2
to escape lethal levels of violence?
i paid in cash,
cortisol,
and custody nightmares.

✶ secret cash pipelines?
bro, he’s “broke as a joke”
until it’s time to post bond
or fly private delusion class.
there’s always a mysterious
auntie or a trust-fund hobbyist
with a goddamn venmo signal.

—

do i want him to suffer?
no.
i really don’t.
do i want him
to face consequences?
yes.
because lack of consequences
is the abuse continuing by other means.
ask his first wife whether
the graph is trending up.
what’s the forecast
for the next one—
or me, in the next 5 years—
homicide true crime?

and yeah,
i was fucking scared
to press absolutely anything.
of course i told them
not to escalate.
he’s fucking trained.
he’s goddamn unpredictable.
and i have a toddler.
that’s not cowardice;
that’s fucking risk assessment.
bro—
i didn’t “weaponize the system.”
he did—
financially,
legally,
and psychologically.
i’m just done subsidizing
it with my fucking silence.

—

why now?
because i ran out
of private doors to knock on.
because i’m not protected
by an uncle with a badge
or a boardroom
with a reputation to polish.
because every
”let’s be reasonable” meeting
turned into:

“let’s be reasonable
about you starving fucking quietly.”

so i’m being unreasonable.
i’m being loud.
i’m being fucking alive.

—

baby,
this isn’t drama.
this is a safety plan
with punctuation.
this is me planting
a fucking flare on the map:
if anything happens to me,
understand there was
a long,
boring paper trail
of people who knew,
who fucking shrugged,
who asked if
the floor “was really that hard.”

i wanted a co-parent.
i got a goddamn case study.
i wanted a ride-or-die.
i got a drain-and-deny.

so here’s
my line in the fucking sand
and the fucking court file:
fraud is fraud.
abuse is abuse.
and escalation
is the only thing
that thrives in darkness.

turn the lights on.
count the money.
read the orders.
match the dates.
watch the fucking pattern.

then tell me
with your
whole goddamn chest
that i should’ve
stayed quiet.

—

closing statement,
your honor:
i’m not asking for revenge.
i’m asking for friction.
consequences are brakes.
without them,
men like him don’t “heal,”
they fucking accelerate.

so print this.
stamp it.
frame it if you have to.
call it evidence,
a warning,
a fucking obituary
i refused to let them write.

i’m public
because my kid
needs a mother,
not a fucking memorial.

💫

i’m loud because i plan on living. ✨