slow clap: here we fucking are again 💫
“here we fucking are again” 💫
—
bro.
i’m just venting
into the goddamn void.
i am in fucking disbelief.
truly. whatever.
because—
like,
are you shitting me
level disbelief.
idk why, though.
but it’s the kind where
you want to throw your laptop
through a goddamn window,
but you can’t—
because it’s the same laptop
you need to
file pro se pleadings,
while your toddler
freaks the fuck out
because she can’t
punch the screen
while climbing in your lap
and your violent-ass ex
is out free
on felony fucking bond
and can’t be
fucking
pinned down.
cool.
cool.
cool.
everybody swore up and down:
“if it ever gets really bad, i’ll be there.”
yo: it’s really fucking bad.
and guess who’s here?
us.
just me.
as per.
—
my life right now?
let’s look—
🖤 $700 law school classes
attended with a screaming toddler
while i’m trying not to cry on camera
getting socratic methoded into fucking oblivion
🖤 a live criminal case
against the man who strangled me pregnant.
(no, not “allegedly.” he fucking did.)
🖤 a civil lawsuit
where i’m my own fucking attorney
because apparently billion-dollar firms
can fuck me for no reason
and still plead “no duty.”
(who the fuck are you?)
🖤 clients texting me like,
“yo cleaning emergency—
while i’m like—
yeah, sure,
let me just
juggle felony-level
domestic violence,
civil litigation,
single motherhood,
and then
i’ll pop by
to sort your rugs,
no problem.
🖤 “friends” who swear
they’ll be here in an emergency—
and when the emergency comes?
they invite me to stop by.
like i’m not already cleaning houses
with a baby strapped to my back—
lol, just to survive.
🖤 family who thinks
paying a bill—
erases the fact
they enabled
this entire fucking circus.
(hint: it doesn’t.
it’s not love,
it’s hush money.)
🖤 one person
who actually
shows the fuck up
once a week—
ily. i do.
because truly?
it’s like—
2 hours sleep—
my kid chucking
her bottle
in the backseat.
my dog barking
out the side of the car.
a stack of shit
i literally do not
have enough
hours to do.
and i’m thinking—
how the fuck
am i going to
fucking survive this?
honestly,
most days
i really don’t know.
and it’s fucking scary.
to be so fucking alone.
—
and the etiquette lesson?
let me fucking spell
it out since no one seems to get it:
when your friend is literally in survival mode:
✶ don’t constantly make your regular annoyances
more important than her current life-emergency.
✶ don’t treat her like your unpaid therapist.
✶ don’t hand her your dead-uncle stories
while she’s choking on her own active trauma
that you don’t want to ask anything about.
✶ don’t say “i’ll be there” and then vanish when shit hits the fan.
✶ don’t think sending food once = “showing up.”
instead:
✶ come over.
✶ take the baby.
✶ walk the dog.
✶ wash the fucking dishes.
✶ sit in silence.
✶ stay two nights.
✶ let me sleep.
✶ let me file motions.
✶ let me fucking breathe.
it’s not rocket science.
it’s called showing the fuck up.
—
since february,
bro.
not a single human being
has stayed in my home
for even two nights.
not since the move.
not when he was arrested.
not when he was released.
not during midterms.
not during finals.
not when i didn’t know
what the fuck to do.
not once.
no one.
💔😢😭
so don’t fucking tell me
you’ll “be there in an emergency.”
this is the emergency.
this is the fire.
and all i see is people
waving from the sidewalk,
snapping pics for instagram,
while i burn alive inside.
—
i’m not inspiring.
i’m not a goddamn motivational quote.
i’m fucking cornered.
i’m surviving because
i don’t have a fucking choice.
💪⚡🩹
so if you said you’d be here—
and you’re reading this—
and you’re not here?
own it.
don’t gaslight me with
“you’re so strong.”
don’t clap like it’s a
fucking war story—
don’t pat yourself
on the back
for crumbs.
because
here we are again.
me.
alone.
still standing.
still screaming into the void.
🥀
and if this
makes you uncomfortable?
cool.
good.
maybe sit with that
discomfort long enough
to finally show the fuck up.
✶
