just let me suffer in peace—for fuck’s sake. 😩🤝🙃🕊️
✦
you know what
i don’t have to do?
apologize
for fucking bleeding.
like damn,
people are way
fucking madder
that i feel shit
than the fact
that it actually
fucking happened.
how fucked up
is that?
wild, huh?
you’re chill with abuse
but not
my audacity
to process it
like a grown baddie
instead of
a violent fucking manchild?
💀 cool.
and yeah
maybe sometimes
i sound rage-light™
(bc hi,
single mommy.
sleep deprived.
fighting goddamn demons).
but let’s be real—
it’s not rage,
it’s just me
hemorrhaging
in fucking public.
and i’m done
apologizing
for making pain
look like
fucking paragraphs—
to not implode.
to not throw hands.
to not commit
sponsored fucking felonies™.
babe—
instead of
fucking prison time.
yo.
because be real—
it’s not fists.
not strangling.
not fucking fraud.
not abandonment.
not cheating.
not theft.
it’s not the shit
they did to me.
it’s me—
choosing not to rot.
but apparently,
even my feelings
need a fucking permission slip.
like sorry
i still love a baby
i never met.
sorry
i once
loved someone
who doesn’t even
fucking exist anymore.
except
in the deep
fake-ass
version my trauma
coded as “love.”
sorry
i keep fucking surviving
when everyone else
wanted me
to fucking die.
and
maybe
that’s fucking embarrassing.
because listen,
i’m not
the type
to chase.
you’ll get
maybe
one “wtf” text
every leap year,
otherwise
i ghost so hard
i make casper
look fucking clingy.
but can i
not
just fucking feel?
can i not
have this dirty
lil fucking corner
of the internet
to stitch
my goddamn wounds
in fucking peace?
bc if i smile—
wrong.
if i fuck—
wrong.
if i rage—
wrong.
if i tell the truth—
dead wrong.
if i’m mad?
i’m fucking dramatic.
if i’m happy?
i’m faking it.
if i’m in love again?
i’m a goddamn whore.
if i say i’m not over him?
oh she’s fucking obsessed.
yo,
just let me fucking live.
like—
nah.
fuck off.
seriously.
i don’t give a fuck.
maybe it looks
pathetic to you.
but fuck it.
i felt it.
i lived it.
and i don’t owe you
a fucking retraction.
fucking ever.
🖤
but this?
little grief garden
i made online?
this shit is mine.
truth is
this is the healthiest
i’ve ever fucking been.
i’ve escaped the goddamn abuse.
and i had
to drag
my bleeding body
by the hair
through fucking hell.
so let me write.
'cause i’d rather
let it die in poetry
than in fucking prison.
✦
so yeah.
this is the fucking graveyard
for what i can’t
scream out loud.
the place
i let it hurt
without killing me first.
an altar made
of wi-fi and fucking blood,
for whoever
the fuck
stumbles across it
and feels
less fucking alone.
🕯️💀🕊️
