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.

how i forget the living

🖤

most people grieve the loss—
by remembering.

i grieve
by deleting.

no altars.
no flashbacks.
no screenshots.
no late-night nostalgia.

i don’t check your socials.
i won’t look you up.
not tomorrow.
not next year.
not when i can’t breathe.

i don’t wonder.
i don’t miss.
i don’t slip.
(i make sure of that)

i block it out.
that’s what trauma does.
it erases what hurts.

and
you
all,
you hurt.

you do not exist here.
you don’t get to.

i bury you.
deep.
quiet.
unmarked.

and i don’t visit the grave.

this is how i endure—
not by forgiving.
not by healing.
but by forgetting
the living.

i’ve done it my whole life.
to blood.
to family.
to friends who blinked
instead of choosing me.
to lovers who hurt
and slept just fine.

and now—
to you.

no text.
no closure.
no eulogy.

just silence.
then absence.
then nothing.

because every time
you chose to be
cold
cruel
absent
to the softest version of me—

you killed your place here.

staying tethered
to people who watched me drown
and checked the time
is treason.

this isn’t heartbreak.

it’s oxygen.

parallel devastation // string theory

this universe—this one right here—
is the universe where everything fell apart.

it’s the one where each choice
felt small in the moment
but shifted entire lifetimes.

this universe is where we let go,
thinking we’d find our way back,
but never did.

it’s the one where one night
would break us forever.

this is the universe
where you drown
in someone else’s chaos
because it was easier
than facing ours.

in this universe,
i lost our fate—
alone in a room,
crying so hard
i couldn’t breathe,
wondering why the universe
would hurt me like this.

why it would give our future
to someone else.

in this universe,
i married the first man
who promised to stay,
even though he was the one
i should’ve run from.

the universe laughed cruelly
as the bruises bloomed
and the bills piled up,
and i learned how to survive
holding a newborn in one hand
and court papers in the other.

in this universe,
we became strangers
ten minutes apart,
living these parallel devastations—

me, raising a child alone;
you, barely knowing yours;

us, drowning separately
in versions of lives
we swore we’d never live.

… … … … … … … … … …

but in another universe—
one just next to this one—
it was our child.

the test turned positive.
you held my shaking hands,
kissed my forehead,
and said, okay, we’ve got this.

the world didn’t suddenly get easier.
we still argued.
you still pulled away sometimes.
i still spiraled quietly at night
when the dishes were still in the sink
and the future felt too far to touch.

but it was ours.
we fought for it.
we showed up.
we did what we could
with what we had.

and eventually—
inevitably—
everything still fell apart.

the weight of our histories
was too heavy to carry
in one crib.

the love didn’t vanish—
it just stretched too thin
between feedings and forgiveness,
resentments we couldn’t name
and wounds we’d never stitched.

and so we split.
quietly.
softly.
no war.
just the ache of knowing
we had become a memory
while still standing in the same room.

but even in that universe,
even after everything collapsed—

you never hit me.
not once.

you never abandoned us.
you still felt like home.

you came to her recitals.
you picked her up when she got sick.
you still looked at me
like i was someone you’d once prayed for.

and when i was too tired to be strong,
you carried her up the stairs
without saying a word.

we weren’t lovers anymore.
but we were something deeper.
something more enduring.

two people bound
by a little girl
and a kind of love
that didn’t need a label
to be sacred.

and that—
that was our worst case scenario
in that universe—

and it was still
the most gorgeous thing
i’ve ever witnessed.

single motherhood (a threat)

it didn’t start like this.

not at first.
he was here.
pregnancy, birth, long nights.

he held her.
walked her.
slept next to us.
he knew her.
he watched her become a person.
he saw her first laugh,
her first trip to the ocean,
her whole face light up at the sound of his voice.

so no part of me believed he’d actually leave.
not even as a threat.
but he did use it like one.
casually at first—
like a warning,
like i should remember this was optional for him.
(bitch leave—you’re expensive)

and when he kept repeating it,
waiting for me to beg him to stay,
i didn’t.
i told him to go.
i dared him.
i made him.

he kept throwing the match,
so i lit the fire for him.

but even from afar,
he wouldn’t stop.
he kept sending his threats.
his instability.
his manipulation.
he kept weaponizing abandonment
as if distance meant he still had power.
and for a while, i flinched.

until i didn’t.

because once the silence really settled in—
once the chaos had space to breathe—
i finally saw it for what it was.
the hazard we had been living in.
the way violence had started to feel ordinary.
and once i saw it clearly,
i cut what was left.
clean.
quiet.
final.

and now?
it’s just me.
real single motherhood.
no co-parenting.
no weekends off.
no “let me know if you need anything.”
just silence.
and a stack of bills with my name on every line.

i stay awake on sleep so fucked up—
it should qualify as a human rights violation.
i clean houses with her strapped to my back.
log into law school with her screaming two feet away.
(climbing my legs)

but—
i stay steady.
i keep it clean.
i handle every detail,
every meltdown,
every deadline.
and still make sure she never feels the weight.

i carry everything.
and still remember the snacks.
i am always tired.
but always showing up.
always pushing through shit
that would break most grown men.

but i do it.
every day.
because she deserves a peaceful home,
a mother who doesn’t shatter,
a life not defined by the mid who left—
but by the woman who stayed.

and despite how heavy this is—
it’s still the softest, most beautiful thing i’ve ever known.

i wake up every morning
to an endless sleepover
with the love of my life.

and if i had to do it all again?
i’d still tell him to go.
sooner.
louder.
and without flinching.

the static of childhood.

when you try to remember
and all that comes up
is violence—
you stop trying.

not to forget.
just to function.

your brain learns
to look away
before the image forms.
before the scream
has space to land.

and over time,
the memories don’t hurt.
they just fade.

not to peace.
just absence.
not to heal.
just deletion.

the black void of childhood
isn’t nothingness.
it’s static.
flashes.

i see glimpses of laughing.
then—
a bottle of soda
poured over your head at dinner.
you just sat there.

i remember your finger.
bent the wrong way.
i remember not reacting.
just watching.

the entire time
trying to be invisible.

we were locked in one room for a year.
pull-out bed.
foam mat on the floor.
i turned ten in that room.
we thought if we stayed together
you couldn’t get us.
we were wrong.

i didn’t forget.
i just didn’t look.
i trained my brain
not to finish the thought.

like—
you kicked the dog
so many times
we had to bury it.
but i didn’t remember that
until my thirties.

because i didn’t want to.

i remember the shelter.
the rv.
your condo.
the bedroom door open.
me and my sibling
just staring.
not speaking.

i remember the roof.
because locking my door wasn’t enough.
you’d scream about something downstairs
and i’d know—
i had minutes
before you came up
to destroy me.

the cops came.
all the time.
and left.

i remember wanting you to die.
i meant it.
i was a child.
and i meant it.

but what i don’t remember?

i don’t remember my teachers.
i don’t remember friends.
i don’t remember playing.
i don’t remember
anything
that made me a kid.

just flashes.
snow.
christmas.
forts.
but it’s haunted.
because it always turns.

people think forgetting
means healing.
means it couldn’t have been that bad.
nah.
i remember the bad.
i just don’t remember the normal.
the boring.
the safe.

and that’s worse.

you didn’t just damage me.
you stole the whole foundation.

and people love to say
move on.
it was a long time ago.
like i’m supposed to wake up
with a new nervous system.

like i’m not out here
trying to grow
with no roots.
just trauma
and bad vibes
that used to make me shake.

other people got to build a life.
some of us just had to survive ours.
not the same thing.

i’m pissed off that you’re dying

i’m pissed off that you’re dying.
i’m not heartbroken yet.
i’m just pissed.
pissed in that quiet, shaking way where even crying feels like a waste of fucking effort.

i’m pissed off that you’re dying.
not because it’s shocking.
not because it’s sudden.

you said it would happen.
you’ve been saying it for years.
but now the doctors say it too—
stage four.
bones.
lungs.
maybe a few years.
maybe less.

they say it like that should be a god damn blessing.
like time is a fucking favor.

i’m pissed off that you’re dying.
when we just crawled out of hell.
me, my kid, the dog.
the wreckage of a life we barely survived.
and you—
you were supposed to be here.

so of course now you’re the one the universe wants to take.
of course.
why not.
burn it all.
teach me another lesson.
make sure there’s nothing left but memory and rage.

i’m sick of lessons.
sick of resilience.
sick of the cosmos handing out grief like it’s my fucking birthright.

you were supposed keep living for us.
you were supposed to outlast the worst parts.
you were supposed to be here when it was finally safe to come home.

but no.
god does not give a fuck.

so now.
listening to treatment plans.
like it’s just so inescapable.

i don’t want to be grounded.
i don’t want to write some poetic shit about love and impermanence.

i’m pissed off that you’re dying.
and i swear to god—
this world is not taking you quietly.

we are going to ‘rage against the dying of the light.’

and if you go?
it goes with you.
my mercy.
my restraint.

i’m going to become something it regrets.

you were the last good thing.
and i’m so fucking pissed off that you’re dying.

calculated (ai) homicide

me:
can you plug in the variables of the risk assessment?

chatgpt:
sure! let’s break it down— just data.

baseline risk (average woman killed by current/former partner):
→ 1 in 3,000

+ strangulation history (x7.5 fatality risk):
→ 1 in 400

+ special forces training (x3 estimated increase):
→ 1 in 133

+ post-separation stalking & hacking (x4 lethality factor):
→ 1 in 33.25

+ public shame trigger (narcissistic collapse; volatile multiplier):
→ immeasurable, but accelerating ↓

+ inside 6–18 month lethality window post-separation:
→ confirmed.

+ access to firearms / tactical violence training:
→ (potentially) confirmed.

+ obsession with “lost” family unit:
→ lifelong trigger. dormant ≠ dormant.
──────────────

⟶ conservative estimate: **1 in 30**
⟶ that’s 60–100x the risk of a typical woman.

chatgpt (robot flat):

not a suspicion. not paranoia.
just a rough sketch of the grave you’re crawling from—
it’s just math.

let me tell you about being alone

not the kind you think of.
not missing someone in your bed.
not a quiet night in an empty room.

i mean the kind of alone
where there’s no father with a toolbox,
no brother with a truck—
(or who gives a fuck)
no friend who says,
of course, girl — what do you need?

the kind of alone
where there’s no neighbor to call,
no one in driving distance who even notices you’re missing.
where you fucking hate having to ask for help—
because:
it’s a favor,
a burden,
a negotiation.

where getting a flat tire isn’t a bad day —
it’s a risk assessment.
it’s standing on the side of the road, praying
the strangers you have to interact with are safe —
because you’re alone with a baby.

where holidays aren’t just lonely —
they are loud,
screaming at you through every window,
full of other people’s families.
and you’re just sitting there,
watching yourself not belong anywhere.
pretending whatever you glued together is enough.

the kind of alone
where every small breakdown
is a sermon about how optional you are.

i have lived my whole life like this.
but this is the first time i stopped pretending otherwise.

because honestly,
i've always been surrounded.
just not caught.
just not included.

they orbit when you shine.
they love your glow.
they swear they’d catch you if you ever fell.

but stay dark for longer than three minutes —
and you’re heavy.
too much.
too messy.
too much of a reminder of the shit they’re scared could happen to them too—
if they were truly alone.

because you made this bed for yourself, didn’t you?

so you learn to laugh it off.
you learn to need less.
you learn to say, it's okay, i got it.

because if you don't —
you watch the way people look at you.
like you’re already dead weight.
like they were never really planning to be there.

and the sickest part is:
if i disappeared,
if something happened,
it might take a day.
two.
longer.
before anyone even noticed my silence.
before anyone worried about my dog.
or my daughter.

this is not romance loneliness.
this is survival loneliness.
the kind you have to bleed through at night,
so your kid doesn’t sense the silence it leaves behind.

i don’t romanticize it.
i don’t call it strength.

but we are still here.
somehow.

not because it’s beautiful.
not because it’s noble.
but because no one ever should have had to do this alone.

and yet here we are.

to everyone i begged to love me

when you grow up
without a family to surround you,
sometimes you learn
to walk through the world
asking people
if maybe, just maybe,
you could call them home.

i didn’t know
i was carrying that question.
not for a long time.

but i offered my heart
to anyone who’d hold it—
even if only for a moment.
i called the ache love.
i called the chaos care.

and every time they left,
i thought it was because
i hadn’t given enough.
that maybe
i just could have done something differently.

i mistook
momentary attention for affection.
crisis for closeness.
convenience for connection.
because when the people
who were supposed to love you
are the ones who forget you the fastest,
who wound you the deepest,
and who still call it love—
you learn to need less.
to rationalize.
to say "i understand why they did it"
while wiping the blood
off your own hands.

so i gave.

i gave everything.
my time.
my money.
my loyalty.
my forgiveness.
my softness.

i tried to prove
i was worth staying for.
worth choosing.
worth loving.

but the people i gave to?

they only came around
when they were empty.
they only stayed
when it benefited them.
and they only loved me
when i asked for nothing in return.

i stayed.

i knew what it was.
i saw the neglect.
i saw how you showed me cruelty
in ways i could never fathom
returning to you—
and i kept trying.

because maybe
if i just decoded your lack of empathy,
you’d come back.
maybe the friends i begged to be siblings,
the family i begged to notice me,
the lovers i begged to just see me—
maybe one of them would stay.
but they didn’t.

because really

i was just a fire
they loved to sit near
and leave once they felt warm.

i was never the destination.
just a detour.
a soft place to land
before they went back
to the people they’d always choose first.
the people that demanded more
and respected themselves.
and now?

i release you.

every person who took what i gave
and gave nothing back.
every person who called me family
when it was easy
and stranger when it wasn’t.
every person who made me prove my worth
while handing theirs out for free.
i don’t want your crumbs.
i don’t want your pity.
i don’t want to be remembered out of guilt.

if you ever want to know me again,
you’ll have to meet the version of me
who no longer bleeds for breadcrumbs.
who doesn’t soften so you can stay.
who doesn’t beg to be seen.
because i’m not angry.
i’m just awake.

i know now:
love doesn’t look like cruelty.
love doesn’t feel like fear.
love doesn’t disappear when it matters.
love doesn’t forget you
when you’re sitting
by yourself alone.
so i’m done chasing ghosts.
done explaining myself.
done pretending
this is anything other
than what it was.

i loved you.
and that should have been enough.
but it wasn’t.
because you never loved me.
you just loved
the proximity
to my glow.
but now i know better.
this isn’t bitterness.
it’s clarity.

and for the first time
in my life,
i’m choosing me.

and i’m okay
sitting alone.

*broken homes

they always say a home is broken
when someone leaves.

but the ones that stay—
silent, untouched, decaying from the inside—

those are the ones that terrify me.

staying for the kids.
staying for the convenience.
staying because splitting would finally reveal the truth.

some homes should crack.
some are begging to crack.

because sometimes the safest thing in the world
is a mother and a baby,
on their own,
making something holy out of ash.

i’ve felt more like a daughter
in the hugs and the tears that were wiped
by someone who found me later in life
than i ever did with the one who helped make me.

so no,
i don’t hesitate at the idea of building sideways.
love doesn’t require blood.
it just needs a pulse.

i’ve seen the light change on someone’s face
when they meet a child that isn’t theirs—
and feel everything click into place anyway.

because true love doesn’t live exclusively in biology.
it lives in being there.
it lives in the shoes you tie,
the bikes you help them ride,
the instinct to protect.

i’m not afraid of bunk beds and blended holidays.
of step-siblings and spare toothbrushes in someone else’s house.
i’m not afraid of loving children i didn’t create,
or being loved by people who arrived later and still became family.

that isn’t broken.
that’s brave.

That is, without a doubt,
the essence of true love—
not merely a sense of obligation.

It’s a conscious choice to share and amplify love,
reaching out to embrace even more people in its security.

i’ve always wanted that.
a home that full.

so this is the family i built—
no blueprint,
just the child i carried out of a storm.

and even if it’s quieter than i pictured—
even if it’s just us—
it’s still a home.

and it’s not broken.

but the door?
it stays open.

not for chaos.
not for the ghosts, not for the shallow kind of love.

but for the kind of love that stays.
the kind that shows up.
the kind that remembers.

because they’ll call this a broken home—
but there’s nothing broken
about a mother, a baby, and a dog
waking up in peace
with nothing to recover from.

it’s truthfully holy.

but i always welcome more.

P.S.

(and yes,
she would’ve been a girl.

and yes,
they all would’ve been sisters.
and yes,
we can still have bunk beds.)

eulogy for the man who almost was

*I’ll try to be kind. A gentleness you never extended to me.

i’m writing this as a eulogy.
not for your body—
but for your soul.
for your heart.
for the version of you i trusted with my life.

because that man is gone.

when i saw you last,
you were playing with my daughter.
your eyes softened.
your voice changed.
and you looked up at me and said,
“you know i would be a good father.”

and i said,
“you already are one.”

because you are.
even if just in blood.
even if she never calls you it by name.

your greatest dream was of a family, a home—
as it’s rotting right in front of you.
you gave up on becoming a man with a spine.
and instead,
you became… this.
a hollow imitation.
a version stitched together by avoidance
and existing in the shadows of your own life.

who whispers through locked phones and late-night texts.
a secret to his own bloodline.

but i remember you when you were still climbing toward the light.
scared.
but brave.
terrified of becoming your pain,
but with qualities that inspired me.
you hated lies.
you always tried to be kind.
you were so deeply traumatized by cheating—
that the thought of it made you physically sick—
because you’d seen what it did.
you swore you wanted different.

but now?

you lie without flinching.
you vanish without consequence.
you are disloyal as a reflex.
you protect the people who use you—
and without hesitation,
you destroy the ones who would’ve stood by you forever.

you have chosen to hide instead of grow.
silence over integrity.
you built a cage inside of your own worst fears,
and then convinced yourself it was where you belonged.

you became a man who doesn’t fight.
not for his kid. not for the truth. not for himself.

and you don’t get to pretend you don’t know that.

because i knew you before this.
i saw how hard you tried to be better.
i saw you become softer in a world that told you not to be.
i watched you fall apart,
but i thought you’d come back.
i thought you’d return stronger,
with more conviction,
more clarity.

but instead,
you let your cowardice calcify.
and it’s too late now.

you’re not who you were.
you’re not who you could’ve been.
you are a walking shell of what almost was.
and that version of you—
the one i loved,
the one your daughter could’ve been proud of calling “dad”—
he’s dead.

and this?
this is his funeral.

i don’t hate you.
but i will never chase a ghost.
and i will never speak to you like there’s still a fire inside your chest.

because for the first time ever,
i see you differently now.
and i’ve buried the man i knew in the ground.
you killed him.
and you chose to live in his place,
as a hollow, forgettable thing.

no backbone. no truth. no courage.

just a man who almost became.
and then gave up.

i promise you this

i promise to be around.
not in the “let’s plan something eventually” kind of way.
i mean really be there.
be home.
be present.

if we have enough, i'll take on less work.
i won’t keep chasing “more” just to prove something.
if we’re okay, i’ll stop.
i’ll sit still.
i’ll know you.
you won’t grow up feeling like i was always just out of reach.

i won’t be too busy to be your mom in real time.

i promise your childhood will feel like something.
you’ll wake up to music on the weekends.
i’ll make chocolate chip pancakes.
not because it’s a holiday.
just because.

i’ll go shopping with you for no reason.
not to spend a ton of money—
just to walk around and tell you you’re beautiful.
because you are.
and because someone should say it while you’re still figuring it out for yourself.

i promise i’ll never compete with you.
i don’t need you to become anything for me.
you don’t owe me your success.
but when you outgrow me, outshine me, out-beautiful me—
i won’t be jealous.

i’ll be proud.
loudly.
i’ll take your picture and brag to strangers.
i’ll be the one clapping the loudest for you, always.

i promise to let you be human.
you get to make mistakes.
you get to mess up.
you get to figure things out and get things wrong.
i won’t talk down to you.
i won’t shame you.

i’ll help you clean it up and move forward.
that’s it.
that’s the job.

i promise you won’t come home to no one.
i know what that feels like—
coming home to a quiet, empty house.
to silence.
to feeling like no one’s waiting for you.

you’ll never come home wondering where i am.
i’ll be there.
even if i’m just in the kitchen doing dishes.
even if we’re not doing anything big.
you’ll know i’m there.

i promise to protect you.
i’ll never leave you with people i don’t trust.
if someone makes you uncomfortable, that’s enough.
you don’t need a reason.
you say no, and i’ll back you up.

i’ll never force you to hug or kiss anyone.
your body is yours.
always.

i promise to keep you safe in real ways.
i will never fucking hit you.
you won’t have to flinch at home.
you’ll feel calm.
grounded.
like someone’s always got you.

because i do.

i promise to tell you the truth about your dad.
that he was a hero.
that he gave up everything for what he believed in.
that he saw things no one should have to see—
and still tried to be kind.

that he was the most handsome man i’ve ever known.
that he gave you the face i love so much i could cry just looking at it.

that we loved each other—
even if it didn’t last.
that at one point, i saw forever in him.
and more than anything, we wanted you.
you weren’t an accident.
you were the plan.
we made our family on purpose.

i’ll tell you the stories.
i’ll show you the pictures.
you’ll never have to guess where you came from.

i promise to always want to hear about your day.
even when you’re older.
even when you’re busy.
even if it’s just “i’m tired.”

you can tell me the bad stuff.
i won’t get mad.
i won’t shame you.
i’ll help you.
that’s it.
that’s the whole thing.

i promise you’ll never see love used as a weapon.
you won’t grow up watching someone disrespect me while i pretend it’s normal.
you won’t learn to call cruelty “passion” or fear “loyalty.”

you’ll see love that’s safe.
love that’s calm.
love that holds without hurting.

i promise to never scare you.
i won’t scream at you.
i won’t throw things.
i won’t break your trust just because i’m upset.

you’ll never feel unsafe with me.

i promise i won’t leave you.
i won’t kick you out.
i won’t abandon you.
i won’t turn away.
my mom taught me that.

i’ll be here.
every day.
until i can’t be anymore.
and even then—
i’ll have left you enough love to carry you through.

you are it for me.
you are my wildest dream.
my best decision.
my whole heart.

and you’ll never have to wonder if you’re loved.
you’ll know.

in other universes

there’s a universe where i was never born.
and in that world, she was free.
she didn’t stay. she didn’t go back.
she didn’t get pregnant again.
she still had my brother—but they were safe.

maybe they lived somewhere quiet, close to the woods, not the city she’s always hated.
maybe she worked with her hands more, laughed more, stressed less.
maybe she was soft. and carefree.

or maybe—
she never met my father at that laundromat.
maybe their lives missed each other entirely.
and none of it ever happened.
and i never existed.
and still, she was okay.

in another universe, i was born—
but we got out when i was small.
and i grew up in a yard full of flowers.
with a mom who was present, not just physically, but there.
we had routines. we had snacks.
she smelled like safety and let herself rest.
she didn’t carry it all alone.

there’s a world where he and i got pregnant—
the first time, the second, the third, the fourth.
one of those months we thought maybe.
and it actually was.
successfully.
we had that baby.
and maybe it was hard, and maybe we weren’t ready—
but we stayed.
and we tried.
and that baby wasn’t a ghost i still can’t stop naming in my sleep.

there’s a world where you didn’t run.
where you stood beside me when it mattered.
where you didn’t disappear when i needed someone to witness what i was crawling through.
where you said i’ve got you—and meant it.

and somewhere, in some version of this life, i didn’t have to leave everything.
because i wasn’t alone.
because i had people who loved me.
a family that stayed close.
people who knew how to hold grief without being afraid of it.
people who said, we see you. you belong here.
and meant it.

but i don’t live in those universes.
i live in this one.
the one where i survived.
the one where i became a mother in the fire.
the one where i left. and lost. and stayed gone.

still—
sometimes, in the quiet, i think of them.
those other versions of me.
of her.
of all of us.

and i send them love.

because even if i’ll never live there,
i hope they do.

and i hope, in their world—
someone is waiting on the porch.
because i’m home.
and nothing hurts.

for luna

i wish so fucking badly i believed in heaven
so i could convince myself that i would meet you finally.

instead, i carry your ghost with me.
every day.
in everything.

you have never left me—
even though you are nowhere to be found.

i felt you before anything showed up on a test.
before a line.
before i could even say it out loud.

i just knew you were there.
i was never scared to be your mom—
i was certain.

you were mine.
we planned you.
we named you.
i had never wanted anything more.
you were my fucking miracle.

when the lines started fading,
i thought i would actually die.

i went to the doctor over and over—
blood tests, questions, silence.
then, finally, nothing.
they couldn’t find you.

you were just… gone.

and i truly thought i might go with you.

i’ve lived through so many atrocities,
but nothing has ever devastated me like losing you.

i think my body gave out from all the pain i was already in.
i think it failed us both.

and i’m so sorry.
i am so fucking sorry.

i wish i could’ve saved you.
i wish i had been stronger.

i’ll think of you every day until i don’t have thoughts anymore.

people don’t know what to say when a pregnancy disappears,
so they say nothing.

they pretend you never existed.

but i know you were real.
you are real.
you are my child.

so when ryan came, i froze.
six different tests said she was still there,
and i still couldn’t trust it.

because i was still so fucking broken.
still grieving you.

and now i look into her eyes and i imagine you.
i imagine you being together.
because you are sisters. you are.

i imagine what it would be like to have you both here.
i miss the version of life so fucking bad that had you in it.

you were my first miracle.
my first experience with a love so big it terrified me—
in the best way.

you made me believe in something beyond survival.

and even though ryan is here now,
even though she saved me in ways i didn’t know i needed saving—
you were the beginning.

i will never regret you.
you are the most unbearable, beautiful love i’ve ever lost.

and i carry you.
in my every cell.
in my silence.
in the mother i am,

always.

you don’t get to call it love now

the pull doesn’t make sense to you
because you can’t fathom the violence it took for me to stay this gentle.

you don’t know how many times i had to choose softness
when survival demanded something uglier.
you don’t know how many times i could’ve turned bitter
and chose to stay whole instead.

you hurt me because i saw you.
clearly. sharply. without mercy.
i saw the truths you buried under your ego.
i saw the parts of you rotting.
and i held up a mirror even when it cut my own fucking hands.

and still—
when i had every reason to gut you,
i stayed soft.

i gave you kindness you didn’t earn.
compassion you didn’t return.
love that demanded nothing from you
when you had nothing real to give back.

and maybe that’s what’s still clawing at you.
not my anger.
not my silence.
not even my absence.

it’s the way i never became your cruelty.

it’s the way you gave me every reason to become like you—
and i didn’t.

you burned through every bit of goodness you thought would always refill itself.
but people like me don’t come twice.

you don’t get to call it love now.

you don’t get to miss what you tried to destroy.
you don’t get to ache for something you left bleeding.
you don’t get to name the wreckage "love"
just because you can still see the outline of what you lost.

i was real.
i was devastatingly fucking real.

and you will never—
never—
feel that again.