2:47am

where you at.

oh right—
sprinting off the emotional cliff you built.

you came fast,
ghosted faster.
textbook move for a man who “doesn’t catch feelings”
but still spirals from five seconds of eye contact.

it’s not giving “unbothered,”
babe.
it’s giving
“panic attack in work boots.”

you’re not mysterious.
you’re emotionally malfunctioning in real time.

you built the vibe.
lit the fuse.
then vanished like a man who felt intimacy for exactly one heartbeat
and immediately had to fake his own death.

be serious.

you looked at me like you were about to risk it all.
touched me like a prayer you knew you didn’t earn.
then dipped like you absolutely didn’t just have
a spiritual collapse in the front seat of the truck.

this isn’t “growing up.”
it’s fear with better branding.

you don’t look above it.
you look terrified—
and at your big age,
that’s not healing.
that’s your whole personality.

and babe—
i could’ve loved you through the unraveling.
but i’m not begging the devil to bring the angel back.

what showed up wasn’t healed.
it was paranoid.
defensive.
fully inventing scenarios
just to justify abandonment.

that’s not “game,” baby.
that’s untreated damage with a god complex.

just the part of you that hurts people first
so you can call it defensive instead of what it is:
self-sabotage with a sad backstory.

i thought you were broken.
turns out you’re just comfortable being a fucking coward.

you didn’t lose yourself—
you let the meanest,
most fucked up version clock in
and called it a growth spurt.

i would’ve helped you clean your shit up,
but let’s be honest:
you don’t want solutions,
you want excuses
for your asinine-ass choices.

and i’m fresh out.

(—fuck)

so nah,
i’m done praying for your light.
not rooting for your redemption arc.
definitely not watching you gaslight yourself into believing
this shit was strength.

you didn’t just sabotage this—
you made it obvious you’re only built for things
that don’t ask you to be a man.

take care of that nervous system, baby.
she’s fragile.

i protected you.

and you called me a liar for it.

i didn’t think it would be you.

you’ve called me a lot of things.
too much.
too loud.
too broken.
but liar?

never by you.
not until now.

i didn’t even know what i was saying would hit like that.
we were just talking—
how we do.
back and forth,
fluid.

i said it—
not to hurt.
not to win.
just as a fact.

i assumed you already knew.
how could you not?

i thought you saw it.
the way she moved.
the way she acted like you were hers to punish.
like her carrying your future gave her the right to rewrite your entire life.

i thought you’d know
she was never fighting for you.

so yeah—when i told you
that she encouraged me to let them come for you,
that she wanted me to be the one to tip the scale—
i thought it would just land as confirmation.
not as betrayal.

but you looked at me,
and said i was lying.

flat out.

but here’s what you don’t know:

i’ve experienced horror.
real horror.
the kind that leaves bruises on your organs and silence in your throat.
and when the cops called,
ready to add your name to the pile—
i couldn’t do it.

not because you didn’t hurt me.
but because i knew this wasn’t that.
not this time.

i knew what it would mean
to give you a record for something you didn’t deserve.
and i couldn’t live with that.
not after what i’ve survived.
not after what i’ve seen.

because i know the difference
between someone who is spiraling—
and someone who plans destruction.

but she wanted it.
she encouraged it.
and the moment i saw her try to weaponize your past
against the version of you that was trying—
i knew.

she’d never loved you.
not even a little.
not selflessly.
she kept you like a poison.

you were holding a destiny
and she was holding a match.

and now look.

look at the aftermath.
the ruin.

she said she wouldn’t put your name on her record.
she meant it.
you’ve been erased.

do you think i’ve held onto that for years
just for fun?
just to drop it like a trap,

no.

it was a bruise i stopped touching,
a fact too painful to revisit,
a betrayal so obvious i thought you already knew.

but you didn’t.
and when i said it out loud,
you didn’t question her—
you questioned me.

i didn’t lie.

not about the call.
not about your record.
not about how they were ready to pin it all on you—
because of your past,
because of who they wanted you to be.

and i didn’t lie when i said
i begged them not to.

i didn’t lie when i said
i protected you,
(even after you abandoned me to bleed out alone)
even when i shouldn’t have.

even when she was on the other end of the phone,
telling me to let you burn.
(“he deserves it; he needs to learn”)

she didn’t even know you.
but hated you for not giving her what she wanted.

do you know what it’s like
to hear someone say you deserve to be in prison—
realizing in that moment,
that she would destroy you without thinking twice?

i hated her for that.

do you know what it’s like
to be caught in the middle of two liars,
and still be the one called untrustworthy?

i didn’t lie.
and i won’t lie now.

but you are trapped.

you’re trapped with someone who plays you.
you’re trapped in a story where you love the manipulation—
you’re trapped by a woman who keeps you by the throat.
and i guess you like it.

and i’m not saying that to win.
i’m saying it because it’s already happening.
and i lost—
and you’re still protecting her.

but it was never me who was lying.

i told the truth.
you just didn’t want to hear it.

still don’t.

the part no one wants to hear

(they’ll say she was too much. she died being too much.)

i know what you’ll say.
what did you do.
we know you’re difficult.
you poke.
you’re insane.

yes.
i’m insane.
you made me this way.
with the hits,
the sexual abuse,
the brutality.
it rewired me.

i bite.
i used to bite hard.

but this—this was different.
i was healing.
i was medicated.
i was changing my nervous system.

and then i caught him.
fucking with me.
manipulating me.
lying.
stealing.
i was pregnant.

and when i yelled,
because yes, i fucking yelled—
he snapped.

i was three months pregnant when it started.
started asking,
where did the money go?
where are my meds?
why can’t i see your phone?
did you really steal a grand off my credit card?

i was paying for our life.
cleaning houses while vomiting.
buying him a car.
paying for his dog.
i was sick.
pregnant.
and alone.

i yelled.
because he was doing terrible things in plain sight.

and when i yelled,
he pinned me.

first it was restraint.
shoving.
pinning me to the bed.
(i’d seen this before)

i was pregnant.
he was trained.

so i hit back.
kicked.
begged.

but it escalated.

you fought me like it was war.
forearm against my throat.
shin pressed down.
hand over my mouth—
don’t scream, bitch.

i did anyway.
the neighbors heard.
they called.
you punched my car.
they saw it.
they knew.

i lied for you.
(and i don’t lie)
told them i was fine.
told them it was me.
i’m crazy.

i always protect the men who try to kill me.

i told my clients i slipped on ice.
i told my doctor i fell down the stairs.

and no one pressed harder.
no one dug deeper.
no one saved me.

then came the statistic.

7–8 months pregnant.
we were arguing.
you snapped.
you jumped on me.
wrapped your hands around my throat
and started to squeeze.

i stopped screaming.
your eyes were empty.
you wanted me dead.

and i felt it.
the chill in my body
that told me
you could do it.
you would.

you spit in my face in the hallway.
punched me over and over.
on the ground.
on my head.
you beat your pregnant wife.
while i was supporting you financially.
while i was still trying to make it make sense.

the week i gave birth,
it happened again.

you beat me so severely
i thought my baby died.

she stopped moving.

i had two black eyes.
a busted lip.
lacerations.
bruises.
head trauma.

nine months pregnant.

and when i told people?
they said:

you picked him.
you trusted him.
you’re a little much.

yeah.
i am.

so when they make my true crime documentary—
make sure you say that on camera.

she was too much.

she died being too much.

i won’t lie

(even when it would get me what i want)

i don’t lie.
not because it makes me good.
not because i crave being believed.
not even because it keeps me safe.

i don’t lie
because i don’t have the energy
to keep track of who i’d have to be
to make you stay.

i’ve lived through hell in slow motion—
and you want me to act on top of that?

no.

i already know what you think.
i’m a liar.
as a child.
as a partner.
as a woman.

they said maybe i misread it.
maybe i made it up.
maybe i liked the attention.

but really—
i’ve been tortured in plain sight.
my body used.
my story erased.
my grief ignored—
then mocked.
and still—
i told the truth.

you think i kept the screenshots,
the black eyes,
the bruises,
the ultrasound,
the hospital paperwork,
the dates,
the timelines,
the badge numbers—

because i needed a story?

you think carrying this makes me feel powerful?

no.

i carry it because it’s real.
and if i let it go,
i disappear with it.

and you—
you need to understand something.

i never lied to keep you.
not once.
not when i said i was hurting.
not when i said i still loved you.
not when i told you the worst parts
and waited to see if you’d run.

and look—
you’re not here, are you?

so if lying was the plan—
it clearly didn’t work.

and thank god for that.

i only want love that is real.
not manipulation.
not omission.
not fear-drenched loyalty.
truth.

if that’s not enough to hold you,
then don’t touch me.

i don’t lie
because it doesn’t serve me.

manipulation might get you to stay—
but it won’t make you love me.
and i’d rather be left
than held but never truly loved.

i wanted you to stay
because you saw all of it
and chose me anyway.

but you didn’t.
and that matters.

i accept it.

because no—

i don’t want love built on what we don’t say.
i don’t want to be kept
because i made myself easier to swallow.

so no—
i don’t lie.

not for attention.
not for control.
not to get you back.
not to make you stay.
not to make you love me.

never to make you love me.

i was there.
it happened.
it almost killed me.

but it’s true.

(and if you don’t love me in the truth—
then it was never love at all.)

things i won’t dm your husband

(even though, let’s be honest—you earned it.)

listen, honey—let’s be real.
i’ve tried to exit this storyline more times than i can count.
built entire lives.
moved continents—spiritually, emotionally, tactically.
but you keep orbiting.
you keep checking.
so the reason i’m writing this
is the same reason you’ll see it:
because no matter how far i move on,
how cleanly i cut out,
you won’t let me die.

because deep down,
you know i’ll always be a threat—
not because i’m trying.
but because i don’t have to.

and in all reality,
you knew exactly what i was to you.
(please do not play dumb.)
even when i was going through the worst shit of my life,
i showed up for you.
fully.
quietly.
without agenda.

i gave you something real—
grace, cover, loyalty.
and you gave me nothing.
no mercy.
no reciprocation.
you let me rot.
you let me check the fucking bill.
(emotionally & monetarily)
and you didn’t fucking think twice.

but sweetie, don’t forget-
if this were a competition,
you wouldn’t even pass the vibe check.

but here’s the difference—
unlike you,
i actually love the people you keep in emotional hostage situations.
and real love?
it’s not manipulation.
it’s not optics.
it’s knowing you could burn shit down,
and choosing not to—
not because you don’t deserve it,
but because they don’t.

that’s restraint.
not weakness.
it’s letting god handle the karma
i’m overqualified to deliver.

so let’s be straight about your life—
you didn’t build it.
you staged it.
for the comments.
for the applause.
for approval from the church moms
who’d block your number
if they ever saw the unedited version of your story.

because your whole existence is a glorified cover-up.
a rebrand for women who would 100%
call you exactly what you are.
(and they would.
without hesitation.
in a prayer group text.)

and that’s why you’ll never touch me.

because i don’t have to edit the truth
even when it’s ugly.
i don’t use people to make the story look better.
i don’t slap a halo on wreckage and call it redemption.

and girl—
even when my husband had me by the throat,
i didn’t call up my ghosts.
because i don’t keep men on standby
to stabilize my self-worth.
i don’t stack bodies
to build a personality.
and i don’t play checkers
(i know you can’t play chess)
with people’s lives
just to feel like someone still wants me.

you don’t envy me because i’m mean.
you envy me because i’m intact.
because i can sit in stillness
without disintegrating.
because whatever lives in me—
that thing that makes him look at me like that—
you’ll never have it.

so go ahead.
keep watching.
keep refreshing.
keep rearranging your personality
to chase an energy you’ll never match.

but let’s call it what it is:
the real reason i still live rent-free in your head
has nothing to do with the past.
it’s that you know—
deep down,
exactly who i am
in his story—
and worse,
you know who you aren’t.

so no,
i won’t message your husband.
even though i could.
even though he should know.
because the truth?
you’re already living with the consequences.
i don’t need to say a word.

i’m not your competition.
i’m just the woman your whole life is built to erase.

so stay soft out there, wifey.

you don’t fkn know me.

you don’t know
i used to run an entire blog when i was sixteen
about how i wished my father would die.

(full chest. prayed that motherfucker—
would freeze in a snowstorm.
fall off a cliff. evaporate.
whatever was quickest.)

you don’t know
i taught myself to code websites from curiosity,
one broken-ass pixel at a time,
locked in my room until 2am.

you don’t know
i wanted to be a photographer so bad
i shot a full suicide girls set for my best friend,
who chain-smoked marlboro reds like it was cardio
and tattooed half her body before we could legally drink.

you don’t know
i used to drive to philly like i had court-ordered community service
in the city of sadness—
just trying to outrun the loneliness
chewing through my ribs that year.

you don’t know
i was wandering around rome
when one of the hottest men i’ve ever seen
stopped,
decided i was inevitable,
and took me on a date right there.

like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

you don’t know
about the men who have written poems about me
just because they sat next to me in class.

(confused how i could be hot and smarter than them)

built me cathedrals with flowers;
just so i would notice them.

(i didn’t)

or the texas boys
that taught me to two step
in the middle of a frat party
in the dining room;

spinning.
like no one was watching.

you don’t know
how many men wrote whole mythologies about me.
(just watching me exist.)

you don’t know
that when i moved to new york city,
me and my best friend split a single sweet potato for dinner
because the metrocard was more important.

you don’t know
i waited tables at a bowling alley for the jonas brothers
and thought they were just some homeschool kids with bad haircuts.

(but that’s kinda the vibe… right?)

you don’t know
about the night i accidentally ended up backstage with steve aoki
in atlantic city —
because my best friend was shamelessly hot (and a baby)
and i spent half my life trying to fight off the men
who thought they could take a piece of her.

you don’t know
i got shipped off to texas (safety)
for those summers
like someone trying to return a defective product.

where the heat glued itself to my skin,
where my uncle taught me to surf baby waves
on the gulf of mexico.

(yes, of mexico, for the geographically illiterate gremlins.)

you don’t know
i grew up in those texas and louisiana summers,
mowing lawns and inhaling safety
that tasted like grass clippings, diesel fuel,
and generational disappointment.

you don’t know
i drank butter tea
in the dalai lama’s temple in exile
while he spoke about compassion.

(didn’t feel holy.)

you don’t know
the night i spent in a domestic violence shelter
as a child.

(not that you give a fuck.)

you don’t know
how survival stitches itself into your bloodstream
like a parasite
you eventually start calling a personality.

you don’t know
my first real loss was a girl i met in second grade—
re-found over cheap clothes and worse parties—
who i promised myself i’d say hi to outside the library.

(i was leaving for college.
i thought i had time.)

there wasn’t a next time.
she died in a car crash a week later.

i carried that forever.

you don’t know
i dropped out of my freshman year
because i could feel myself slipping under
and honestly didn’t want to stick around for the autopsy.

you don’t know
i fought my way into texas when everyone said i wouldn’t—
ran like a fucking animal
being chased by predators.

you don’t know
i rode on the backs of motorcycles
owned by men who should’ve been in jail.

(just to feel something.)

you don’t know
that half the people still watching me
aren’t witnesses — they’re parasites.

the kind of roaches
who resent what they can’t become.
who confuse proximity with relevance.
who mistook being close enough to overhear my life
for having a part in it.

you don’t know me.
you never did.

so it’s honestly lowkey embarrassing—
how you thought this story somehow revolved around you.

sweetheart;
you never even read the cliffnotes for idiots.

you always came for me

i met her in the golden era of algorithms.
a blue-check siren call—handstands and hash-tagged divinity—
and me?
just a girl with calloused palms
and a vision nobody could see yet
in the back of a building no one could find.
but somehow,
she did.

she saw something in me—
not the broken, not the act, not the brand—
but the part that was feral, burning,
half-wild and half-willing to die trying.
she didn’t hesitate.
she co-signed the chaos.
showed up with the light and the ladder.
dragged me up.

she knew what it cost.
to open your ribcage in public,
to be the first girl to burn,
to talk about colonization in a room full of lululemon.
when the mob came, she didn’t look away.
she stood shoulder to shoulder with me,
white knuckles, open throat,
like a woman who knew exactly what it meant
to use her privilege as a weapon for, not against.

she saw through the trembling.
the hypervigilance.
the moments where i wanted to disappear into the floor.
and instead, she laid one down.
clean. soft.
said: “you can land here.”
and i did.

when i thought the world might spit me out,
she wrote the check.
sent the wire.
packed the bag.
scrubbed the floor.
made room.
i never had to ask.

she came from another orbit—
poised, patient, made of pause—
while i burned through cities with my teeth.
i was fire.
she was the calm that held it.

we didn’t speak the same native tongue,
but we spoke fluently in each other.
she let me rant about empires and power and patriarchy,
even when it wasn’t easy, even when it wasn’t hers.
we fought. we listened. we cried.
and cried.
and cried.

we’ve crossed more borders than some people cross streets.
slept on concrete, posed on sand,
cried in the jungle, and laughed
til we forgot who started the fight.
she’s the only person who ever took me anywhere
just because she wanted to.
no hidden agenda. no branding deal.
just us against the entire fucking world.

she’s the only one who ever said the word brilliant
without mockery.
without flattery.
like a fact.
like gravity.

we didn’t envy each other because we couldn’t.
we weren’t built the same.
we were forged for different wars.
and still—
we always knew when to carry the other
off the battlefield.

i don’t know what kind of cosmic contract we signed.
but i know this:
you never left me behind.
not once.
not when i was broke,
not when i was broken.
not when the whole damn world tried to silence me
and i was too tired to scream.

and i would do it all over again.
eight million times.
every war.
every floor.
every country.
every night we couldn’t sleep
because the truth was too loud
and the world was too stupid to hear it.

i’d do it all again
for you.

the ghost you left inside me

(you’ll probably never read this, but if you do i hope you cry.)

here’s the truth i’ve never spoken out loud.

you intentionally killed her.
it wasn’t an accident.
it wasn’t a tragic mistake.
it was a choice.

you knew she existed.
and you wanted her gone.
so you made me suffer for bearing
the thing you had begged me for—
for eons.
for lifetimes.
with clarity.
with conviction.
for years.

and then you looked me in the face
and told me she couldn’t exist.
with anger like i did something wrong.
and even though you softened later—
you still left.
you still abandoned me.
and then you told them i was lying.
as i bled your child out
on the floor,
alone.

you stabbed me in the back—
so deeply that you hoped you’d cut far enough
into my body that she died along with me—
from the depths of your brutality.

and you did.
you won.
you killed her.

and while i lay in ancestrial ruins soaked in her blood:

you vanished.
you erased us.
you made me look insane—
for carrying the life you came to me and asked me to create.
and then tried to ruin me for believing you.

you begged me for a family.
you begged me to build a life.
you stared into my soul and told me
i was your home.
and the second that home took form,
you destroyed it.

you didn’t ask if i was okay.
you didn’t check if she made it.
you told her story to someone else
like it never even happened.
like i made her up.

but i didn’t.

i felt her.
saw the lines.
saw them fade.
she was real.
and you killed her.
because it was easier than facing your own wreckage.

my body broke
the stress and devastation ate me alive.
my womb collapsed
because your betrayal carved open my back
and stabbed through her heart.

i mother a ghost now.
while you pretend you never made her.

and i need you to hear this:
you killed your greatest miracle and spit on her grave.

and i know you don’t speak these things out loud.
because that would make them real.

and i don’t care who told you it was okay to do this.
i don’t care what version of the story you tried to get them to believe.
the truth is simple:

she died because you wanted me to suffer.
for giving you what you always wanted.

and one day,
you will look at a life you didn’t build.
at a daughter you never knew.
and realize:
you were the burial.
not the father.

and i hope that ruins you.
forever.

you won.
you got nothing.

i didn’t want to write this

(but you’re the reason women die)

not because i didn’t have the words.
but because your archetype is exhausting—
and fatal.

you play the victim so well,
you’ve started to believe yourself.
you cry about chaos while quietly setting every fire.

there is a rare and insidious type of woman who
uses the language of abuse not to escape danger, but to create it.
it’s not a cry for help—it’s a tactic.
not to be saved, but to stay centered.
not to escape, but to control.

but baby girl, i clocked you the moment i heard the narrative.
i know the high you get from weaponizing what should be sacrosanct.
it’s your favorite modus operandi— (google it girlie)
because as long as you’re the perpetual victim,
no one will get an accurate read on the manipulative, abusive villain you really are.

but i do.
i see you.

because women who are truly afraid?
they don’t move like that. (i know you don’t know.)
they don't play chess with the men they say they're afraid of.
they don’t risk late-night texts—
because that kind of shit can get you fucking killed.

you are not afraid.
you are the chaos.
and maybe there is a cycle of abuse—
but you’re the one pulling strings from the epicenter.

this isn’t survival.
this is theater.
it’s covert optics.
behind his back.
while he pays your rent.
feeds your babies.
and you cry to another man to come save you.

but baby, i see you.

you don’t want to leave.
you want a better option.

i know this because:
you don’t run when the door isn’t even locked—
and you have multiple exit plans.
not when being trapped earns you pity and attention.
not when chaos keeps you in control of the storyline.

but i fucking see you.
because some of us actually ran for our fucking lives.
we know that you will leave everything,
in the middle of the night.

you grab the babies.
and you run.
no fucking shoes if you have to.

you just run.

because sweetie,
i’ve almost died at the hands of men that love me.
and let me explain, we’re not the ones smiling biggest in the family photo ops.
because it’s blessed, right?
(or am i in the wrong script now?)

and I know the difference
between a woman in danger
and a woman who uses the language of danger
to avoid being seen for what she really is.

you aren’t scared.
you’re calculated.

you don’t want peace.
you want power.

you’re the type of woman who needs men to orbit you.
as you play them against each other,
just to feel the power that you can’t get without manipulation.

but always remember this:
you hold babies as hostages,
and while you play games,
they will be imprinted with the chaos you created.

because you’re not trapped.
you are the architect of self-created tragedy.

but i hope you understand the gravity of what you’re doing.
because it is lethal.

and they will call us liars as penance for you.
because you sucked the empathy out of people
who were too exhausted to listen
when we are actually fleeing for our fucking lives.

and focus for a second:
they will die because of you.

and honestly, the worst part is:
your children will still suffer.

because abuse does live in this home.
you’re just not the victim.


***For survivors who’ve had their truth disbelieved because of someone else’s bullshit.

if you’re out there, this is for you.

**if you see this you’ll know.
you’ll remember that december.

the moment the addiction stopped being a shadow
and became something i could name.

we made a pact that day—
i wasn't going to leave you there alone.

not because we were together.
(if you remember correctly, i went on a date that night.)
not even because we owed each other anything,
but because the demons were circling.

and in that moment,
i didn’t want you to be alone ever again.

i wanted to protect you from everything.
from all of it.
and for a little while,
we really tried.

but this isn’t a love story.
not anymore.

this is a vow.
because we didn’t speak them then.
so i’m saying them now.
(when they mean more.)

not as your wife.
not as your judge or jury.
but as the woman who now carries your name.
your bloodline.
your daughter.

never doubt this:
she will know who you are.

your name will never be a word she’s afraid to utter.

she will know what you endured—
and what you couldn’t.
she will know about your father—
how his death lived in your body longer than he ever got to.
how you built yourself into a man,
even when there was an emptiness you couldn’t fully describe.

she will know that war stayed inside of you.
long after your duty ended.
that service came at a cost.
that sometimes the demons moved faster than healing ever could.

she will know that you got yourself into spaces
that you never thought were meant for you.
(i’ll make sure she wears your ivy league colors with the same pride)
she’ll know you accomplished more things before she was born,
than men twice your age could ever dream of.

she will know that you loved her.
that you chose for her to enter this world.
and that even when you couldn’t stay,
you didn’t leave her.
you left a version of yourself you couldn’t survive being.

and i will never let her confuse collapse with abandonment.
i will make sure she knows the difference.

i know you’re probably angry.
because i wrote the truth.
because i named the darkness.
because i didn’t protect the illusion.

but i didn’t do it to punish you.
i did it to free you.
because what we didn’t say out loud nearly killed us.

and darling,
i know what it’s like to be the monster.
i know what it feels like to have PTSD overwrite your nervous system.
to scream into the void.
to burn something good down
just to see if the fire would make you feel alive.

but despite the damage,
you will always be redeemable.
you will always be her dad.
and forever be our family.

i promise you these specific things;
because you willingly helped me fulfill the only destiny i couldn’t live without.
and even if we never do this side by side—
even if someone else teaches her how to ride a bike,
or makes pancakes on sunday,
or sits in the front row of her school play—
you will not be erased.

even if you’re never there.

because she looks just like you.
and sometimes,
when she tilts her head a certain way
or laughs without warning—
you are in the room again.

and i hope one day you come home.
not to me. but forever to her.

so you can see what we made.
so you can see who she’s becoming.

because this is my sworn promise:
you can trust me.
you can trust me.

this is my vow.

and i will keep it.
every day.
for the rest of my life.

you were never the plot.

you were the karmic plot twist no one asked for.
not pivotal.
not poetic.
just a terrible rewrite that tanked the storyline.

and the worst part?
you really thought that made you important.

i was over here surviving shit you wouldn’t last a week through—
grieving real love,
real loss,
real betrayal—
and you were behind the scenes auditioning for a role no one offered you.
quoting lines you ripped off someone you so desperately want to be.
trying to become relevant by manipulation tactics and jesus misquotes.

you feed on the garbage.
on power over people that never wanted you.
on fake glow-up arcs built off someone else's suffering.
you want to be seen as the one who won something,
but everyone knows it’s because no one else wanted what you got.
a role in a narrative that everyone begged you to exit.

you don’t heal bloodlines.
you demolish them.
poison them.
manipulate.
control.
and then you slap scripture on the whole thing like god co-signed your fucked up delusions.

you weaponized a whole ass life to try to keep someone who didn't even want you enough to take you seriously in the first place.
and then paraded around like you were the victim in some epic romance you never even had.

you watched me lose everything and that made you feel important.
because it was the closest thing to actually being me that you'd ever get.
and stealing something that was never meant for you—
that was sacred—
and used it like a knife under a throat
because your actual personality wasn’t good enough to lock it down within itself.

but let’s get it straight—
you were never the plot.

you’re just cosplaying a christian wife
as you breed children out of every single cardinal sin.
you’re the victim in a self-written sub-story we didn’t even want to hear.

you manipulate people so you can feel significant.
and sweetie, we see it.

you were the mistake during a spiral that no one could delete.
the fucked up twist that devastated whole eras.
the mid-season tragedy we all had to suffer through so the storyline could keep moving.

call it righteous,
call it healing,
call it god.
we both know what it really was:
a desperate pick-me moment that you use to torture entire lineages.
a rerun of a stereotype so insidious and predictable
that they write cautionary fictions about it.
and honestly,
you ruin lives just to feel something.

that’s not love.
that’s epic-level annihilation.

and it’s rotting you.

but i’m still here.
untouched.
funnier.
hotter.
terrifying.
calmly narrating the script you effectively hijacked.

still everything you tried to imitate.

and you’ll never be remembered for anything other than the role you forced yourself into—
when baby…
(i’m going to hold your hand when i say this and i want you to really hear it;)
you were always just the plot twist no one wanted to happen.

sweetheart, you are the generational curse.

hope it was worth it.

murder math

i’ve been doing math my whole fucking life.
not algebra.
not calculus.
murder math.
survival calculus.
the invisible equation you run before you open your mouth.

if i say this, do i die?
if i enforce child support—does he snap?
if i tell the truth—does he drive across the country?
if i stop pretending i was ever in love;
that maybe even it was never that deep for me—
do i end up a true crime?

because here’s the real equation:
half of femicide victims are killed after they leave.
seventy-five percent were stalked beforehand.

and still—i see the numbers.

so i do the math.
i always do the fucking math.
every time i speak.
every time i post.
every time i call them what they are.
every time i choose to be happy.

and still, i feel it—
right behind me.

people say i’m glowing now.
they say i look peaceful.
that single motherhood suits me.
that i’m brave.

and all i can think is:

this is me at my most killable.

404: file not found.

redacted.

404: file not found.

👻 refer to screenshot.

why i quit yoga: being a white girl when you hate white girls

i quit yoga because i was the colonizer in the room—
and i knew it.

it didn’t matter how many sanskrit words i could pronounce,
or how often i said i “respected the roots.”
i was still a white woman making money off something we stripped,
watered down,
and sold back to each other for $22 a class.
that’s the story. period.

i hated us.
white women in yoga.
the whole fucking bullshit performance.

i hated the pastel matching sets.
i hated when they said dumb shit like “yoga can save you,”
when they didn’t even know what yoga was.
like, actually, factually had zero fucking clue what it meant.

i hated the ganesh tapestries ordered off amazon.
i hated the seven-minute meditations posted to instagram.
i hated the random-ass buddha statues shoved into studio corners
because it "looked zen" or whatever the fuck.
cool decor.
zero context.

one time i watched a straight-up yoga "celebrity"
throw a temper tantrum
because an indian woman called her out for blatant appropriation.
and instead of taking accountability like a grown adult,
she cried,
weaponized her whiteness,
and got the commenter’s account banned.
like a bratty little baby.

(she blocked me after i talked shit about it.)

i hated that the more “advanced” someone looked online,
the more horrific they were in real life.
some of the most “globally known” yoga people?
actual garbage humans.
narcissists with crystals and press-ups.
but hey, great engagement.

i thought yoga made people good.
i really did.

i thought it would be my version of religion—
a place where people were actually working on themselves.
actually giving a shit.

then i met my yoga icons
and watched their ethics burn to the fucking ground.
most of them weren’t even good teachers.
some of them were straight-up bad teachers—
but they were hot, so whatever.
good at branding.
loud as hell.

meanwhile?
my mom taught me more real-world morals
than this whole fucking industry combined.
and i wasn’t about to drink the kool-aid
just because y’all looked cute in a matching set.
it’s actually giving self-absorbed & unhinged from reality.

i came to yoga because my soul was starving.
i was looking for something that might save me.

what i found?
white women making pinterest boards out of someone else’s culture,
wearing turbans,
chanting shit they clearly didn’t understand.

we turned a sacred, ancient spiritual practice
into a backdrop for reverse warrior and turmeric lattes.

we didn’t want to understand it.
we wanted to wear it.
so maybe we wouldn’t feel so fucking boring.

yes, i look like them.
i benefit from the same systems.
i know that.

but i’ve lived through shit
that would break some of these bitches in five seconds.
i couldn’t relate to their entitlement.
i couldn’t sit peacefully in a studio built to make them feel safe
while everything else was rotting underneath.

so i left.
i burned down the business i built
because i wasn’t going to keep pretending.

not because yoga isn’t real.
but because what we did to it is.

mysore was crazy.
i traveled with annoying girls
who thought they were on some spiritual journey
but were really just collecting content and weird exotic clout.

these bitches were starting fights with tuk-tuk drivers over 53 cents
while wearing yoga leggings that cost half a year’s salary
in the country they were “retreating” to.

let’s never stop and ask ourselves
why so many people live in poverty here
while we bounce around like it’s a fucking white girl spiritual awakening tour.
are we seriously this removed from reality?
apparently.
the yoga is clearly working for you.

it’s almost impressive
how out of touch you have to be
to feel spiritually superior
while actively being the problem.

and honestly?
i was the problem too.

yoga didn’t fail me.
white women did.
and i didn’t want to be one of them anymore.

still didn’t drown with you

it’s true.
i never loved you — not like that.

not the way people mean it when they talk about falling in love.
to fall, for me, means something holy. something cellular.
like your presence quiets the world.
like being near you makes me more myself.
like i could feel peace just standing next to you.

that’s not what we had.

you were always hiding.
behind bravado. behind addiction. behind an idea of who you thought a man should be.
but the truth is — i would’ve loved you more for your honesty than your mask.

i would’ve loved you anyway.
even with the trauma.
even with the ptsd.
even with the wreckage you carried behind your eyes.

because if anyone knows what it’s like to crawl out of a burning room in your own mind — it’s me.

but you wouldn’t let me in.
you lied. and then did the things i already knew you were going to do.
and then you left.
quiet. quick. like a ghost.
poof.

but i don’t hate you.

maybe it’s because hate still requires something visceral. something alive.
and what i feel for you now is something else entirely.

i feel space.

and i’ll always hold that space for you.
not because you earned it.
but because you gave me the only thing that truly mattered —
our daughter.
this luminous little soul you left behind for me to raise on my own.

and i do.
gladly.
fiercely.
without resentment.

i forgive you.

i will never hate you.

but i know why you hated me.
you hated me because i survived something darker, and still didn’t become like you.
because i didn’t lie.
i didn’t steal.
i didn’t cheat.

maybe i was a bitch sometimes —
but only because no one was coming to save me.
and i refused to drown with you.

the ashtanga cult

when i first went to mysore, i wasn’t chasing some big spiritual awakening—
i just wanted to see where this practice came from.

i’d been doing ashtanga for a while.
i kept hearing people talk about mysore like it was the holy land.
everyone made it sound like this magical place that would change everything.

so i figured... why not.
let’s see what the hype is about.

but within days of arriving, i remember thinking vividly:
these people are fucking crazy.

it wasn’t the asanas—those made sense.
strong. methodical. rhythmic.

it was everything around them—
the altars to pattabhi jois,
the hush around questioning authority,
the way people’s eyes darted around if you asked uncomfortable questions.
the yoga police—self-appointed guardians of "purity"—side-eyeing you if they caught a hint you drank alcohol or, god forbid, ate meat.
the weird ass conversations about "guruji," delivered with the kind of solemn reverence usually reserved for saints.

it hit me fast and hard that even though saraswathi was his daughter—and a truly remarkable teacher—
her son took the throne.

i saw how small her shala was compared to the anointed one’s.
it already made no fucking sense to me.
so i went back.
over and over.

maybe i’d missed something?
maybe they weren’t really this far gone?

i’d traveled halfway around the world to practice yoga.
but what i found felt a lot more like a well-dressed cult.

rigid rules.
idol worship.
a kind of quiet obedience that made my skin crawl.

sharath jois sat at the center of it all—
benefiting immensely, both financially and culturally, from the system as it stood.

and when the me too movement finally cracked the surface?
his response landed like a soft deflection.
more about his struggle than the people who had come forward.

and people praised it.
clapped.
sighed with relief.

because if they didn’t—
they’d have to face the truth.

that their practice, their teacher, their whole carefully curated identity
might be built on top of something cracked.
something dark.
something deeply fucked up.

it wasn’t just spiritual bypassing.
it was collective delusion.
the kind that protects power, punishes dissent, and wraps itself in incense and sanskrit to keep from being questioned.

i stood in the middle of it thinking:
how the fuck is this still happening?

mysore was powerful, yes.
but not because of the bullshit hierarchy or the inherited thrones.

it was powerful because it showed me—up close—
how quickly devotion turns into denial.
how easy it is to call something sacred
just because everyone else does.

snaps fingers
wake up

they tried to fucking kill me

i was born to a man who didn’t want me.
but worse—he didn’t care.
indifferent to whether i was fed, warm, safe.
indifferent to the fact i even existed.

he saved his fire for my brother—
a boy raised on violence and praise,
taught that love was brutal,
that women are weak.

my mother—
she worked herself to exhaustion.
five jobs. five hundred worries.
no time for anything but keeping us alive.
she cared enough to try,
but survival leaves no room for anything else.

i was always alone.

because they fucking hated me?
like my father did.
like my brother did.
like every man after them.

they wanted me small.
silent.
grateful for the suffering they handed me.
they tried to kill every spark in me.

i should’ve known.
when the first man tore doors from their hinges,
drove 100 miles per hour just to watch me flinch.

then came the biggest projection i ever invented—
thinking what was in my chest was real.

i miscarried on the bathroom floor alone.
sobbing for the child who could’ve tethered me to him.
screaming like a wounded fucking animal, bleeding out.

i died too that day.
realizing i was just another body to fill his emptiness.
replaced by literally anyone.
he must have hated me too.

or worse—
he was always a hallucination.

so i ran.
straight into the arms of a man i knew could destroy me.
i thought if i could create something whole,
it wouldn’t matter that i never had been.

and then i saw my own version of my father.
i had found him.

he took me from standing to flat on my back.
head against the wood.
pregnant.
his hands around my throat—squeezing.
his fist against my skull—again. and again.

i carried his child and his rage at the same time.
eight months pregnant.
cleaning houses while hiding bruises.
a ghost of myself.

days before our daughter was born,
he put me in the hospital.
then totaled my car.

but the most hollowing act wasn’t the fists.
wasn’t the strangling.
wasn’t the blood.

it was when he spit in my face.

inches away,
with our daughter still inside me.

because to spit at something is to say:
you are nothing.

and if i was nothing—
i was something that could be erased.

so i ran.
back to my father’s house.
a place where i was never a child.
still just a thing.

and it was just as brutal as i remembered.

but there’s her.
and i would not let her know the childhood i had run from.

so i went home.
to the place i bought alone.
just in case i needed to escape.
not sure how i would survive—
only that i had to.

because they fucking hated me.

they tried to kill me.
they tried to break me.
they tried to make me disappear.

but i am still here.

and my daughter?
she will never ask:
"why does he fucking hate me?"

they tried to fucking kill me.
and they fucking failed.