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.)

the roster: deep scroll edition

(aka: honey, it’s purely physical. i do not want your childhood story.)

babe.
i. love. sex.
love making out.
love getting lifted up.
love you being obsessed.
love. it.

so yeah. ping ping ping.
eventually you f*ckers wear me down.
(how do y’all smell when we are single? shit’s like blood in the water.)
i lasted half a year with no skin contact—
but now?
yo. let’s go.

so f*ck it.
i’m deep scrolling.
actually looking at the texts, the dms,
the weird ass “what happened to your husband” messages
because men clock that shit like a direct transmission from jesus christ himself.
and honestly?

i get it.

you never forgot me.
something about me—so real. so strange. so hot.
so…why doesn't she give a fuck? energy.
i know.
but babes (all of you, gather round):

i’m using you.
for your body.

i don't wanna do the therapy rundown.
i don't need to hear about your mommy.
i am not your emotional pivot point.
i am your reason to go silent after.
(baby, i’ll call you.)

truly?

i’ve got a full nfl arc in my dms.
fumbled in 2010,
(weren’t you on a videogame homie?)
been regretful in fb messenger since 2013.
hey baby,
shoot your shot.

flower boy?
brought me a bouquet every hangout for a month in like 2022—
now texting in invisible ink like he’s from spy kids.
bitch, i will tell her.

there’s a 5'10" plastic surgeon doing rounds
and sending “what do you need tho babe?”
(didn’t see it for 8 hours—my bad angel.)

prom king?
talking to himself in my messages like it’s his personal diary.
baby—you stole my desktop. like full stop. out my window.
i dragged you in front of the entire football team.
you are not him.

rando-hometown dudes?
“babe, you’re single now… need a hug?”
yeah babe.
i do.

but i need you to shut the f*ck up while you do it.
(and maybe take the trash out on your way out.)

law school sugar daddy?
offered to pay my tuition to hit.
(baby, didn’t i meet your mom? —
love you for that cutie.)
… lowkey?
i fumbled that one.
he was obsessed.
and kind of a hottie.
hi.

i’m scrolling through the chaos like:
ehhhhhhhhhhh idk.

here’s some guy i literally had to google.
his name popped up and i was like
“i should know who this is…”
oh, right. trauma dump dude.
i nodded.
he cried.
i disassociated.

and this is the thing:
i want your body.
the rest of you?
annoying.
zero assets.
talks too much.

you’re loud, soft, and bring nothing to the table but audacity.

like honestly,
why are all of you so…
un-smashable?

anyway—i’m back.
bored. hot. emotionally bulletproof.
screening new applicants daily.

but straight up?

vibrator supremacy.

again.
and again.
and again.

v. letters i should never write: blood brother

(proof that devastation can cause two very different outcomes)

i wish i didn’t have to write to you.
i wish i didn’t have to write about you.
but mostly—
i wish you just…liked me.
not loved.
not protected.
not stood up for.
just... liked.

i get it.
i was annoying.
i existed too loudly.
i embarrassed you.
i wanted to be around you, around your friends.
and maybe you thought it was just little sister shit.
but for me?
it was survival.
it was the only way i knew how to say don’t leave me here alone.
it was a tether.
a flare.
a prayer.

and it’s not like i didn’t notice.
that one time—
when i needed you the most—
you turned your back on me.
i was still so young.
but i clocked it.
the disgust.
the recoil.
the way you pulled away like the shame was contagious.

and it cut so deep because i never knew why.
i still don’t.

i don’t know what i ever got that you didn’t.
i don’t know what made me so contemptible.
i don’t know why your power always came with distance.
i don’t know why you pretend you weren’t the chosen one.

you were.
even if the crown was bloody.
even if it came with fists and rage and rooms you had to survive.
you were seen.
you were coached.
you were somebody’s pride.

and me?
i stayed local.
shared lockers and hand-me-downs.
rode the bus past the house you disappeared from.
you were sent somewhere with towers and ivy.
somewhere far from where we came from.
somewhere they paid for you to be saved.

and now?
you mock any softness shown to me.
call it irresponsible.
call it unearned.
like i didn’t grow up
digging through the wreckage you walked away from.
like i wasn’t surviving
without the luxury of distance.

and i pitied you for that, sometimes.
because the violence made you cruel.
but it didn’t make you invisible.

i was the ghost in the house.
the background noise.
the extra mouth.
the girl who kept showing up—
even though no one was home.

and still—
i never hated you for it.
but from your pedestal,
you still spit on me.

you saw me after he left.
and all you could say was—
why did you pick him?
why did you have a baby?
why would he stay?

you didn’t ask me about the pictures;
you didn’t ask me what happened—
didn’t ask for the hospital report
when he punched me so many times,
i thought she was dead inside of me;
the police report;
the bruises.
cuts.
blood.

and i didn’t ask.
not then.
not ever.
i never asked you for anything.
not help.
not mercy.
not kindness.
and the times i almost did?
you locked the door before i reached the handle.

and still—
i drove to visit.
sent the gifts.
sent the cards.
still remembered your birthdays.
still tried to be a part of your family.
still wanted to be the girl you didn’t mock behind the scenes.

you don’t dislike me.
you just don’t see me.
and if you did—
you’d probably laugh.
probably say i’m being dramatic.
probably roll your eyes
and go back to your neat little life
where i’m a chaotic warning you don’t believe in.

and still—after all this—
i wish you liked me.
not because it would fix anything.
not because i think i deserve it.
but because it would mean i wasn’t crazy for trying.

because if you liked me—
even a little—
then maybe i wasn’t just screaming into an empty house.
maybe i wasn’t as forgettable as you made me feel.
maybe the girl i was didn’t die in that silence—
she just got tired of waiting for anyone to look back.

and maybe that’s what hurts most.
not the rejection.
not the judgment.
not even the disgust.

but the knowing—
deep in my marrow—
that i wasn’t a reflection of who you didn’t want to become—
i was the evidence of what you left behind to save yourself.

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.

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.

to the love of my life

(this isn’t what you want it to be)

i know you wear that title like a crown.
because you know it’s you.
but i’m here to dethrone you.

because even though you are—
the love of my life—
it’s embarassing.

because what you should know is this:

i’ve always been numb.
dead inside.
unmoved.
detached.

the grief,
the violence,
the betrayal—
they rewired me.

and the part of me that believed in you?
that was the miracle.
that was the glitch in the fucking system.
a once-in-a-lifetime fuck-up.
a weakness.

you should’ve never gotten in.
i shouldn’t have ever let you.
but you did.
and you wasted it.

so tell me—
how does it feel
to betray the broken thing
that was finally brave enough to believe you?

the weakest thing i ever did.
was to really believe you meant it.

so—

do you think of me?
be honest.

mornings?
nights?
on long drives
when you can’t sleep
when she’s not me

it’s constant, isn’t it?
the haunting?

because i remember.

i remember watching you grow.
i remember the way you looked at me—
you can’t make that shit up.

the fire.
the fury.
but also the delicate.
i never let anyone see.

so yes—
you were the love of my life.
because,
i believed you.
and that’s the only difference.

because,
i never believed any of them.
not one.
but they never looked at me like that.

and that’s how you killed me.

the betrayal
of believing
it was finally safe.

so definitely—
you broke me.
devastated me, actually.
i’ve never let myself feel that much pain.

but not because you’re magic.
not because you’re powerful.
or mythical.

you broke me—
because i believed you.

and that was your one shot.
your one miracle.
your once-in-a-lifetime access
to something holy.

and you used it
to run some epically long joke.

so i hope your greatest love story
is knowing the most untouchable,
unforgiving,
devastatingly hot,
brilliant girl
you’ll ever breathe beside—

believed every word.
but you were just fucking kidding.

so congrats.
you really had me.

iv. letters i should never write: to the woman sleeping with his cadaver

i don’t know you exist.
not for certain.
but i know you exist.

hi.
i’m the past.
the one he couldn’t kill.

let me tell you your future.

he probably said i was insane.
manipulative.
violent.
that he tried.
that i ruined him.

and you—
you probably wanted to believe him.
because it made you feel chosen.
special.
needed.

(i get it)

but i know you’ve seen the cracks.
the things you know not to ask.
the phone face down.
the gaps in the story—
where you can feel it’s a lie.

and honestly?

he’ll grow quieter.
not calm—
just calculating.

you’ll ask simple questions.
he’ll deflect like you struck him.

you’ll rationalize.
he wouldn't.
he couldn’t.
he would.
he did.

you’ll pay the bill.
you’ll fix the mess.
you’ll lie for him.
just like us.

you think i’m bitter,
angry,
unwell.
but no—
i’m free.

i cut the rope.
he wanted us to drown quietly together.

he doesn’t love you.
he loves an ego hit.
he loves your assets.
(did he move in?)

your willingness to believe you’re different.

and i’m sorry.
but—
you’re not.
you’re just next.

because he’s not just damaged.
he’s pathological.

and he’s not haunted.
he’s infected.

(and that makes him dangerous)

he studies people like us so he can become who we need—
to secure the resources he needs to survive.

i hope he hasn’t taken your money yet.
your confidence.
your light.
but if he hasn’t,
he will.

so take this as my warning:
it will hurt.
because when he cracks—
he crushes.
it’s brutal.
irrationally cruel.

and that is the sickness.

he sleeps beside you,
but he’ll never live in that body.

and girl—
he’ll spend the rest of his life trying to unsee his own ghosts.

and you—
you are just his next hiding place.
you are the cover story.
the camo.
the alibi.

so if you see this,
(you probably will)

baby, run.

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.

iii. letters i should never write: steven the rapist.

i could start this by calling you a disgusting, pathetic little piece of shit.
but even that says too much yet means too little.

your mom should have miscarried you.
you are a mistake to the world.
you are a clerical error of the universe.
not even a real person.
just walking, breathing fecal matter stuffed into unironic nerd glasses.
a creepy short-ass loser that has friends that are girls;
because it’s too hard to get someone to fuck you that wants to.

you’re the reason women are confused about what rape is.
because honestly you look like a pussy.
that’s the only reason i even let my guard down.
but you’re the reason i learned that being nice to men—
makes them think you want to fuck them.
makes them think they deserve to fuck you.

you hovering little hobbit bitch.
orbiting.
lurking.
watching me date literally…anyone else.
but that didn’t matter to you.

you swear we made out once.
good for you.
hold onto that.
you’re going to need something to fantasize about when you rot in whatever basement you still live in.

what i remember is christmas night.

i remember being blackout drunk.
i remember asking my brother to drive me home.
and i remember you —
jumping in like the little peasant-bitch you are
like you were owed something for creeping in the background all those years.

you said,

"nah, i got you—let me"

yeah.
you "got me."

you got me passed out.
you got me half-conscious and unable to say no.
you got me bleeding out and terrified the next morning.

you got me a tampon jammed so far inside me it felt like it was trying to butcher me from the inside out.

congratulations, you fucking loser.
imagine having to move like that to get someone to fuck you?

i told my brother when i woke up.
the first person i saw.
i told him with that tampon still lost inside me.
and he looked me in the face and said,

"are you telling me you got date raped?"
(disgusted)
and walked away.

he’s the reason i didn’t go to the hospital that day.
i was too scared.
because nobody fucking cares.

ten years later i walked into the police station anyway.

they made me find your number.
they made me call you.
they made me speak to you.

and you didn't even deny it.
you fucking agreed.
you fucking admitted it.

you said:

"yeah... it didn’t feel right."
"yeah... i knew how drunk you were."

sober enough to drive an extra hour out of your way.
sober enough to seize an opportunity you knew i would never have complied with sober.
(like the weird little pathetic gremlin you are)
sober enough to rape me and make it home in a—
poof.

but it still wasn’t enough for them.
because in the eyes of the law,
unless you die on the floor,
in front of their eyes
it doesn’t count.

but hey steven,
hear me out for a second—
you think this is over?

new jersey doesn’t have a statute of limitations, you dumb troll.
and now i know the law better than the pigs who let you off the first time.

this isn’t a threat.
it’s just a fact.

you’re not even a villain in my story.
you’re a thought that makes me want to peel my own skin off.
a fucking weird gross stain.
a fuckup i haven’t gotten around to correcting yet.

you’re insidious because you hide behind niceness.
but someday people will know exactly what you did to me.

and that title will stay with you forever.

you’re just a body walking around waiting for the truth to catch up.

and it will.
(hope you sleep okay)

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.

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.

ii. letters i should never write — to the woman who had my last name first:

sometimes i think about you.
not because he made you a threat.
not because of jealousy.
but because i questioned what happened.

i saw the man that came to me.
the rot.
the confusion.
the mask that slipped only when no one else was looking.
(the cruelty.)

and i thought—
maybe only i could see it.
maybe that meant i could fix it.
maybe it would be different.

but i should’ve known.
i should’ve read between the lines of your silence.
the absence of details.
the things that didn’t quite add up.
the things that were too neatly erased.

i heard the whispers.
the ones people say in low voices
so they don’t have to say them all the way.

but now i understand:
he didn’t love either of us.
(i think it was the one in between / irrelevant.)
but truthfully—
he never loved himself.

i got your letters.
from the church.
the ones asking to dissolve what god had supposedly bound.
i read them.
even the accusations.
some were harsh.
(maybe unnecessary.)
but some haunted me.
because i know you weren’t lying.

and even in the slander—
i believed you.
every word.

i still would’ve protected him.
not because i didn’t believe you.
but because i knew what he was,
and still wanted him to be better.

i’m not religious.
but i am here to tell you:
i heard you.
i see you.

and some things that are supposed to be holy break.

but i’m proud of you.
it wasn’t okay.

and i’m sorry your dream fell apart.
i’m sorry for what was promised
and never delivered.

because the truth is—
he never had a dream.
just pain,
and delusion,
and a black hole of secrets.

i don’t know if we ever really knew him.
but we both tried to.
and we both lost.

i’m sorry what you had with him died.
what i had did too.
and the man we knew?
he lives on like a ghost.

but i wanted you to know—
i believe you.
and i know what it cost you to survive him.

i. letters i should never write— to my father (but really, to the boy you were):

i’m not writing to the man.
that man is dead to me.
this is for the boy.
the child still trapped inside the monster you became.

i forgive you.
not because you deserve it,
but because i know what happened.

i’m sorry life was cruel to you before you had words for it.
i’m sorry no one kept you safe.
i’m sorry the lights went out and no one came.
i’m sorry you wandered the streets as a kid,
looking for a floor that wouldn’t kick you.
i’m sorry you were hungry.
cold.
forgotten.
i’m sorry you weren’t held more.
that your mother left.
that you became hard when what you needed was softness.

i’m sorry for the horrors you definitely saw
and the dreams that died before you even learned to dream.

but here’s the part i’ll never say out loud:
it’s true.
i leave you.
and yes—forever.

not because i stopped loving you.
but because you wouldn’t stop bleeding on me
from wounds you refused to heal.
you stabbed me with the same blade that made you.
and one day, i finally pulled it out
and said:
no more.

you didn’t get out.
i tried to drag you out.
but you wouldn’t come.

so i did what you couldn’t.
i got out.
i took the ghosts and turned them into light.

your granddaughter is safe.
she is warm.
she is fed.
she will never know what we survived.

and that’s the part i want you to know,
somewhere, in whatever broken cathedral your soul still haunts:
you didn’t get to finish the story.
but the ending is beautiful anyway.

we made it.
you didn’t.
but because of that—
we did.

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.

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.

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.