✶ bitches who actually showed up

✶ i’ll never forget this.

this one's not about who disappeared.
this one's about who came back with a flashlight.

not the ones who said
"i'm here if you need me."
but the ones who just got on the plane.
who venmo'd without waiting for the gofundme collapse.
who didn’t send prayers—
they sent
boxes.
food.
clothes.
time.
arms.

bitches who ran logistics.

these women?
these were the motherfucking cavalry.
the ones who said:
“what do you need?”
and meant it.
the ones who didn’t need a script or a sob story.
who didn’t ask for explanations or apologies.
the ones who saw me
alone,
raw,
breaking—
and brought tools.

and this isn't about entitlement.
it’s not about expecting luxury in crisis.
it’s about the comedy—
the sitcom-level absurdity—
of how many people looked at me,
said
“that sucks,”
and kept scrolling—
while this random-ass army of bad bitches
built a ladder and dragged me out.

not the ones i’ve talked to the most.
not the ones who post me every birthday.
not the ones who swear we’re soul sisters
but go dark when the water rises.
no.
it was the ones with real hearts.

the kind who just do what needs doing.
the kind who show up with snacks, not speeches.
the kind who don’t perform empathy—
they practice it.

i’ve always tried to be a good friend.
i’ll send your kid an easter basket.
i’ll drop everything
to show up for your heartbreak.
i’ll love you to death.
i’ll love you to death.

but something shifted.
when i started needing things—
tangibly, desperately—
it felt like a lot of people just stopped seeing me.
and for the first time in my life,
i thought:
maybe this time i really will drown.
and some people just...
watched.

watched while i dragged my body through the wreckage.
watched while knowing i have no way to get our belongings.
watched while i almost failed out of law school with my infant in my lap.

they ghosted.
disappeared into their comfort.
posted memes about healing and chose silence.

but not these women.
not these ones.

✶ when i packed my car alone,
no clue how to cross the country with a dog and an infant,
someone showed up.
physically drove me across states.
saw me unraveling,
didn’t flinch.
fronted the flight to bring my daughter back.
created the GoFundMe when i couldn’t breathe.
moved me out of hell and into something like safety.
she didn’t ask.
she acted.
she moved mountains.

✶ when i landed in colorado, barely stabilized—
someone i hadn’t spoken to in years was immediately there.
like no time had passed. like she’d been waiting to be an angel.
she checks on me weekly, an hour away.
and every offer is real.
(this bitch will literally help me brainstorm out of any problem)
she helps because she wants to.
not a favor. not a burden.
just her: “girl, i got u”
no performance.
just consistent care.

✶ my second grade bestie.
messaged me the other day,
and i was too tired to be alive.
but i opened it.
and she was offering her dad.
to walk into a volatile situation.
pack my life.
ship it across state lines.
so i could finally stop mourning the things i left behind.
no questions. no drama.
just: "we’re here"
and i cried.

✶ one of the realest to ever do it.
she flew in after years apart and landed in the mess like it was sacred.
sat on the floor 'til 2am building furniture.
held my baby like she was hers.
opened her wallet like she was funding a mission.
again. and again. and again.
she was everything.
she is family.

✶ and then—a goddaughter.
of my old bestie, my 81-year-old
not-quite-grandpa cleaning client.
a woman i barely knew.
still—no one has babysat my child more than her.
she just... showed up.
"i'll help," she says.
over and over.
not for clout. not for thanks.
no strings. no invoice.
just presence.
she gave me breath.
she gave me rest.

these are the women who earned their name in my book.
not because they posted me.
but because they protected me.

not because they called me strong.
but because they made me safer.

they didn’t need to know everything.
they just knew i was worth saving.

and when i look back on this era—
blood, silence, court filings, hunger, sleep deprivation, violence, rebirth—
it won’t be the people who said they loved me that i’ll remember most.
it’ll be these bitches.
these saints.
these ride-or-die-ass logistics legends.
these friends.

because they showed the fuck up.
and that saved my life.

✶

cassie v. the mogul. the monster. the mf media machine.

exhibit c: cassie v. theplaintiff: certified bad bitch
docket no: 1-800-BEEN-THAT-BITCH

style of cause:
cassie.
not just a name.
a cautionary tale for men who thought
"that NDA would hold."

she didn’t come forward.
she came for blood.
with dates. receipts.
in heels.
while pregnant.

procedural posture:
after years of grooming, gaslighting,
and being turned into an aesthetic,
plaintiff filed a scorched-earth lawsuit
and made federal court quiver.

facts:

• defendant: billionaire mogul.

• cassie: literal goddess turned hostage.

• abuse timeline: 10 years, give or take every ounce of her soul.

• method: shaved her head. made her bring him women.
  controlled her money, movement, music, body.
  called it “love.”

• result: full psychological hostage situation,
  but with paparazzi.

issue:
can one woman burn down a brand, a man, and an entire power structure
before breakfast?

rule:
if you are pregnant, formerly famous,
and running low on fucks—
you may be entitled to financial and emotional compensation.

application:
cassie said: i’m done.
and then she filed.
no PR stunt.
no docuseries.
just 35 pages of “fuck around and find out.”

she made her trauma footnotable.
she made survival a strategy.
and she made the industry say,
“oh… shit.”

judgment:
she wins.
not just the case—
she wins everything.
power.
voice.
sleep.
and hopefully?
her fucking peace.

notes to self (aka lessons from a legend):

• never doubt a quiet girl with a baby bump and a trauma folder.

• NDAs are just foreplay to a bigger explosion.

• white women wish they could liberate like this.

• cassie burned the blueprint and built her own exit route.

filed under:
✦ “this is what survival with receipts looks like.”
✦ “defamation? no baby, this is documentation.”
✦ “someone call the fire department—she’s still smoking.”

—

xo,
the bitch taking notes
🖤📂💣 silence

lively v. logic, decency & survivors everywhere

blake. fucking. lively.

not to be rude,
but actually—
yes. to be rude.

…

defendant: tone-deaf barbie w/ producer credits
docket no: 4GET-HER

style of cause:
blake. fucking. lively.
princess of pastels. duchess of deflection.
first of her name.
last to get the memo.

nature of the action:
trauma-themed brand activation
masquerading as advocacy.
girl said “survivor-centered storytelling”
and handed us a cocktail menu. 🥂

facts:

• executive producer of a DV memoir adaptation

• played make-believe with real women's trauma

• renamed an abuser after a liquor label

• layered pastels over pain

• weaponized aesthetic neutrality

• dared to ask: but what if survivorship was...an instagram filter?

issue:
is it still exploitation
if the exploiter is blonde, rich, and holding a blowout brush?

rule:
you can’t soft-launch feminism
by hard-launching a liquor line

application:
blake positioned herself
not as the vessel for truth
but as the face of survivorship™.
not because she lived it—
but because it’s on-brand.
she had final cut.
she had the money.
she had the mic.
and still made it about hair, alcohol,
and curated grief.

she wasn’t the victim.
she wasn’t the silenced.
she wasn’t even the bystander.
she was the bankroller.
and now she wants applause?

girl.

this isn’t feminism.
this is a business strategy
in a floral maxi dress.

judgment:
the court finds the vibes
unserious.
the motives,
fucked.
the feminism?
whiter than her PR team.

remedy sought:

• one (1) gag order on fake woke white women

• retroactive producer accountability

• a lifetime supply of humility (non-transferable)

• damages for every survivor she tried to sell empowerment to—$19.99 per bottle

• revocation of all “girlboss” licenses, effective immediately

notes from chambers:
you can’t center trauma
behind the safety of ryan reynolds’ face card.
and you don’t get to cry feminist
when the only risk you took
was a branding pivot.

blake isn’t the moment.
she’s the memo we send to warn each other.

filed under:
✦ “feminism is not a photo op.”
✦ “palatable ≠ powerful.”
✦ “you are the reason we don’t talk to press.”

—

xoxo,
the bitch in the courtroom
with nothing left to lose
but her gag reflex.
(gossip girl) 💄🖤📉

fwb? bring tools.

you men love to psuedo-fall in love with me.
baby, don’t lie—
you were picturing our child.
you saw one selfie and thought,
damn,
i could maybe build a life with her.

but let’s be real:
you’re not built for that.
you were just hoping i’d build it for you.
then let you co-star.

and then you hit me with:
“i’m down for fwb but no expectations.”

oh word?
revolutionary.
you don’t want me to catch feelings?
(to want to lock it down?)
baby, i’m already locked down.
(to law school. to my kid. to greatness.)

i’m always locked down.
men will follow anything that feeds and fucks them—
let’s not pretend this is an achievement.

sounds more like you just want to fuck a baddie
and offer nothing—
and you forget—

i’m smarter than you.
finer than you.
funnier than you.
more healed than you.
and unfortunately for you,
not even slightly impressed.

let’s get one thing straight:
i’m not applying to be your fantasy.
you’re auditioning not to get blocked.

you want to fuck me
like i’m your emotional support goddess
but become “busy” the second i need
dinner delivered or the car jumped?
baby—
no.

you want “softness and non-judgment”
while offering me… what?
vague texts?
some mid-level attention
and your childhood trauma?

this isn’t build-a-bitch.

i’ve already been picked.
multiple times.
i’ve had men cry when i left.
men that actually tried.
men who read me poems,
cooked me breakfast,
begged me to have their last name.

you think your “vibe” is going to move me?
you think being hot and literate is enough?

no, babe.
i’m not shook by a story arc.
not by the six-pack.
not by your crypto resurrection.
not by the money you dangle,
so you don’t have to bring effort.

honestly?
boring.

you think you know the game?
i invented the game.
i’m the scoreboard.
the rules.
the final boss.

you can’t run game on the architect.
you can’t finesse the blueprint.

because sweetheart—
you’re giving:
zero tangible assets,
zero emotional intelligence,
zero grown-ass-man energy.

so just remember:

unless you’re bringing more than
dick and a good story—
(tools, dinner, anything fucking useful)
do not bother.

please don’t ask to touch god if you’re not prepared to kneel.

gold digger??? where bitch???

it’s actually so wild
how women get called gold diggers.
like genuinely hilarious.
because where is the gold?

show me one single brick.
because if i’m digging,
it’s only ever been to dig men
out of their own financial graves.
and then crawl out of the crater alone.

big bro?
never lent me shit.
(even while in the most fucked up situations of my life…with a baby)
but the one time he needed help in college?
(i’m sure you forgot)
i dropped money into his account without blinking.

no hesitation. just vibes and blind loyalty.

me?
asked my dad for help with college
and he said
“lol sorry the economy”

same energy with child support.

“sorry you’re poor.”
nah.
you’re just sorry you had a daughter.

then the encore—

because what’s a little childhood betrayal
without a full adult remix?

told me to come live with him.
said,
“you’ll be safe here.”
knew i was running for my fucking life
with a baby in one arm
and a will to live in the other.
knew i had nothing but a car seat,
true crime stats,
and whatever traces
of nervous system i had left.

so i moved.
crossed state lines like a fugitive from my own life.
spent every last fucking dollar
turning his dusty little man cave
into an actual home.
furnished it,
fixed it,
made it look like someone with a soul lived there.

turned his sad drywall dungeon
into a place a child could exist in
without catching a lawsuit
or a tetanus infection.
for a whole fucking year.
like a clown with a vision board.

and then?
i asked him—
politely—
to close his bedroom door.
(crazy right)

and that was apparently my grand finale.
he kicked me and my baby out
in the dead of winter
like we were a bag of fucking garbage.

and that was supposed to be love,
apparently.
no cash,
just character development.

then the live-in loser era

this man literally traveled the globe on my dime
while making me question my existence.
i flew him to the f1 in abu dhabi
for his birthday.
(business class, you lil shit…a surprise)
he gave me a blender
and a kindle he lost the year before.
bitch, i hate you.

he was living the mid-boy travel dream
funded by my mental health
and my ability to open credit lines.
i was sponsoring the soft launch of a man
with zero ambition and unlimited insta-girl access.

then there was “love.”
aka mr. six-figures-and-zero-shame.
fully employed,
financially stable,
and still acting like
me asking for help with the mortgage
was a personal attack on his net worth.
(instead of an actual roof over his head)

never paid rent.
never covered a single utility.
(you know—i’m really asking to be spoiled here)
lent him money to fix his truck.
my dude—
“forgot.”

(jesus christ at least you bought me jewelry)
but it was pandemic era—
my business tanked.

used my last $8k to buy a camper
to chase his delulu
spoiler:
he sold it behind my back
(at a loss; cuz what’s money?)
with all my shit inside.

talking about:

“you’re trying to get pregnant for a check.”
sir.
literally,
what check?

the one your kid currently gets?
right.

then the husband experience:
beta tested,
trauma optimized

this one took my paid-off vehicle
had me finance a new one so he could use mine
then totaled it days before i gave birth—
then bounced.

(you can’t make this shit up)

said he’d help me pay for law school
so i emptied my entire safety net
to help him build something.
he ditched us when i refused to keep funding
the bullshit.

left me with a financed car,
an empty bank account,
and a mountain of debt.

refuses to pay $87 in child support.
(motherfucker)

…

so final invoice?
me,
always delivering.
always coming out with less.

gold digger??
girl—
i’ve only ever lost money on men.
they have never made me richer.
only extracted,
borrowed,
forgotten,
fumbled,
and fled.

every man i’ve loved has
☑ taken my money
☑ taken my stability
☑ taken my joy
☑ taken my goddamn sanity
and left me with
☒ nothing but overdraft fees and a lower credit score.

new definition:

gold digger (n.)

a woman,
men bankrupt
emotionally,
financially,
and spiritually —
then dub a “gold digger”
for wanting the bare minimum they promised.

the only thing i dig now is graves.
and they’re all shaped like men.

y’all are actually crazy.


******

⚖️ legal disclaimer:
any resemblance to real people, places, or events is purely coincidental.
this is a work of art.
a creative expression.
a piece of emotionally therapeutic satire.
any connection to real-life abandonment, betrayal, or eviction is…
unfortunately your problem.

sorry i didn’t drown prettier for you

i used to show up for people like it was my job.
no pay.
no boundaries.
just vibes and codependency.

i excused everything.
they’re busy.
they forgot.
they suck at texting.

whatever. i’d still show up. every time.

but now?
i’ve got a toddler clawing at my face
and a dog that thinks protecting us means threatening civilians.
my phone’s full of law school bullshit.
answering an email has to coordinate with a nap schedule—
i still don’t know where the fuck my actual mail key is.
my to-do list that looks like a cvs receipt.
i have not slept in months.
i’m holding it down solo with zero backup.

like.
no one.
nada.

and still—
i’ve asked.
not for a kidney. not for your soul.
just:
“can you come over— it’s my birthday…”
“can you watch her for an hour so i can pass this class and not spiral into academic ruin?”
“can you just show up like you allegedly care?”

and y’all—
y’all said no.
or sent an ironic-ass
“what are you doing today?” text
like i hadn’t already told you i was suffocating…

like i’m not openly holding it together
with caffeine,
screen time,
and sheer delusion.
and you said “after class?”
as if class wasn’t me silent-crying
through a cold call while a toddler headbutts my laptop.
you said “wish i could”
from TEN. MINUTES. AWAY.

and what’s truly insane?
i would’ve red-eye flown to y’all.
zero hesitation.
no sleep.
no excuses.
i would’ve broken speed limits and life plans
just to remind you you mattered.

and you couldn’t even cross a f*cking zip code.

so yeah—it's different now.

old me would’ve moved dumb-ass mountains for you—
held space, made time, lost sleep.
sent the texts. showed up. stayed late.
i did that. over and over. for years.

but new me?
new me can’t afford to chase people who clearly don’t give a fuck.
new me doesn’t have enough left to explain
why it hurts when people ghost you mid-breakdown.
new me is underwater.

and the thing is—
you’ll love me again once i’m easier.
once i’ve survived without you.
once i’m glowing and rested and unreachable.
you’ll resurface with some nostalgic bullshit.
you’ll pretend you forgot you watched me drown.

but i didn’t forget.

so no.
i’m not mad.
i just finally believe you.
you never had me like that.

so yeah.
i’m done.
blocked.
cut off.
emotionally evicted.

and if that hurts?

good.
because it fucking kills me.

and i’ll never understand why i didn’t matter.

the little monster.

honestly? you were forgettable.
no one even clocked the threat.
(even though it was half a fucking decade)

you were just a dick.
a door-punching, threat-throwing, gaslight-spitting,
emotionally stunted little monster
with an inferiority complex
and a mediocre personality.

first red flag?
holes in your doors.
i noticed.
but i was young and stupid and thought
rage meant passion.
nope.
rage just means: run.

second?
you screamed at your mom
because she told you not to scream at me.
iconic behavior, really.
gave “man baby with entitlement issues”
a whole new dimension.

then came the full collection:
door-slamming.
verbal warfare.
breaking shit like you were auditioning
for america’s next top tantrum.
punching walls instead of checking into therapy.
classic.

you made destruction your personality
because you didn’t have a real one.

and god—
forcing me into your “adventure couple” fantasy?
as if camping in freezing temps
and trauma-bonding
were going to distract me from the fact
that you were a little man—
jealous of my day job.

newsflash:
i didn’t need to summit a mountain to feel alive.
i just needed to get the fuck away from you.

you pulled out your go-to threats,
weaponized my fear of abandonment—
“i’ll leave.”
“this isn’t working.”
“you’re crazy.”

you called me too much.
too anxious.
too fucked up.

but let’s be honest—
you weren’t overwhelmed.
you were out-gamed.
and deep down,
you knew the only thing keeping me around
was the fact that i hadn’t fully realized
you were the weakest link in the storyline.

you watched me rise.
from sleeping on your floor with a duffel bag
to running international yoga retreats.
from broke and barefoot
to becoming the fucking blueprint.
and it killed you.

because you were never untalented.
just mediocre.
and instead of doing something about it,
you turned on me.
because it was easier to rage
than rise.

i flew you all over the world.
paid for that shit.
same with your little sister—
like family.
like a fucking gangster.
i tried to build a life with you.
you tried to burn me down.

and when i was done?
when i changed the locks?
you did what weak men do.
tried to get me back.
and when that failed—
you rebounded a whole life.
(i’ve been there. lol.)

but truly—
i’ve never been jealous of her.
but i have prayed for her.
because i know what’s behind
that little man complex.

you were nice to everyone but me.
to the outside world,
you were “helpful.”
“chill.”
“such a good guy.”

you were never misunderstood.
you were just small.

a little monster with big tantrums and no legacy.
and the only thing more pathetic than what you did
is how long it took me
to stop calling that shit love.

but i did.

and truly—
falling in love with everything you weren’t,
broke me too—
but at least he reminded me that love exists.
that i can want more.
that i can be loved.

you never measured up.
(and i worry about her for that)

you were never anything but a brutal cage—
i had to escape.

and the best thing i ever did
was lock the door
before you got the chance
to burn anything else down.

and the only reason i say your name now
is to remind myself
what it took
to unlearn thinking that shit
was love.

babe, stop loving me. it’s embarrassing.

(aka: being the dream girl makes you more likely to be murdered.)

this isn’t a heartbreak story.
it’s a societal indictment with a body count.

we were trained to chase the crown.
taught that securing a man meant we’d won something.

“be the prize.”
“be chosen.”
“be kept.”

wifey.
mom.
pornstar.
saint.
chef.
maid.
therapist.

but they forgot to mention—
men were raised to believe they already own the prize.

and being beautiful.
hot.
devastatingly good.
true.
faithful.
forgiving—
it won’t save you.

it won’t make them worship you.
it makes them resent you.

because we didn’t train little boys to love.
we trained them to conquer.

to win.
to dominate.
to inherit everything without having to earn fucking anything.

so being the dream girl?
the one that got away?
the one they fall in love with for real—
the real you?
the one that isn’t an object?

it fries the system.
they panic.
they plot.
they try to break what they can’t hold.

he’ll cheat on you while you’re pregnant.
he’ll drain your bank account,
talk shit on your name,
ruin your credit,
emotionally devastate you,
and call it “a rough patch.”

and you?
you’ll be told to try harder.
to forgive.
to shrink.
be nicer next time.

the truth is:
he doesn’t see a woman.
he sees a threat to a role he was promised without ever being qualified.

so no—
being the dream girl isn’t the win we think it is.
it’s the setup.

he’ll still ghost you.
still cheat.
still marry someone else.
still leave you at 60
for a 28-year-old who thinks nirvana is a weed strain.

and babe?
you could be the love of his fucking life.
the woman who restructured his entire sense of self.
the one who cracked him open,
taught him to feel,
taught him to kneel.

the one he dreams about,
obsesses over,
fantasizes about while lying next to the woman he married—
six months after your breakdown.

he’ll text you at midnight,
from a locked bathroom,
tell you he made a mistake,
that no one compares,
that you’re his biggest regret.

and he’ll still ghost you.
still post her on your birthday.
still minimize you when it benefits him.

because love,
real or not,
won’t undo the programming.
he was never taught to honor what humbles him.
he was taught to destroy it,
then stalk it profoundly,
obsess over it—
for years,
while calling you “crazy” to his bros.

he doesn’t want to love you.
he resents the fact that, baby—
you were the true king.

so let him spiral.
let him fuck everything that walks.
let him stare blankly when that song comes on.

but don’t you dare make yourself small so he can feel tall.

don’t dim.
don’t doubt.
don’t return.

he was never the kingdom.
you are.

act like it.
and salt the fucking earth behind you.

congratulations, you almost bagged a life pivot.

(for the man who looked me dead in the eye, told me every sin he ever committed, made me feel safe in the wreckage—and still managed to fumble it in under 48 hours)

i almost let you hit.
not because you’re charming.
not because of the sleeve.
not even because of the baby daddy energy that screamed—
“i cheat and cry about it.”

no—
you almost got me
because you were honest.

you told me straight up:
you’ve cheated on every woman who’s ever loved you.
you never stayed.
you never healed.
you always run.
and i just sat there,
feeding my toddler puréed sweet potatoes,
thinking—damn.

he’s hot/messy and honest?
what is this,
a baby daddy redemption arc with arm tats and full narrative transparency?
an ex-marine grow-up glow in human form?
sign me the fuck up.
(fucking jesus christ;
why am i like this)

you looked at me like you’d seen god once,
and she looked a lot like me.
you held your entire sad boy backstory in one hand
and a screwdriver for my kid’s toy in the other.
i saw it.

i held it like a crystal ball
the possibility.

and i almost believed it.
almost.

but baby—
you had 48 hours.
forty. eight.
to say anything.
a “yo.”
a “that was wild.”
a “i can still taste your lipgloss.”
god, even a fucking fire emoji.

instead?
siren noises. ghost protocol.
vanished like intimacy gave you fight or flight.

and look.
i get it.
you said women always chase you.
but baby—
i told you i don’t play.
(not because i’m better,
because i’m extra traumatized)
i’m the exception.
i delete threads.
i close doors.
i block because i almost felt something.

because “friends with benefits”
needs the friends part.
you know—
where i don’t scare the shit out of you?
acknowledging i held your entire lifetime of damage
while agreeing you were absolutely—
the asshole you admitted to being.
but acknowledging you didn’t have to continue to be.

i showed you peace without babying you.
just nodded, like,
“yeah babe, that tracks.”
because it did.
you were textbook tragic—
but with enough self-awareness
that it made me think twice.
(hard pause)

and i didn’t try to fix you.

and still.
you fumbled.

so yeah.
i wanted you.
more than i should’ve.
you were hot.
like “ruin my life and i’d let you” hot.
like “i’d justify this with astrology later” hot.

but i saw the truth.
the part where if i stayed,
you’d love me just enough to break me.
so i deleted the number—
the thread.
all of it.
before i had to recover from you.

and that?
shit.

that’s new.
usually i’d let you ruin my life.

🖤

i’m the problem? it’s me?

(sweetie— the call is coming from inside your search bar)

you didn’t care when i was on the floor.
literally.
on. the. floor.
but write it down?
oh, now it’s giving… concern.

you had no issue kicking me out with a baby,
in january,
in the dark.
but oh no, not the lowercase poem.
not the metaphor.

bro—
you were bold when you screamed in my face,
blackout drunk,
while i had already been kicked.
but now i’m the threat?
because i have a website?
(girly come on—shit has been here for a decade)

you laughed when i was raped.
minimized it.
forgot it on purpose.
please.
you weren’t spiraling when you did it.
you’re spiraling now because i said it
where people can hear it.

and it all sounds ugly—
doesn’t it?

cuz baby.
be so serious.
no, actually—be so clinically evaluated.
by someone licensed.

and let’s really talk about it:
you didn’t mind the story.
you just wanted editorial control.

(this is how abuse thrives, in silence)

you wanted the blackout parts redacted.
the impact cropped out.
you wanted your cruelty framed like a “misunderstanding”
and my survival labeled a “crazy bitch revival.”

but i said: no thanks.
i’m the narrator now.

and the part that really kills you?
i never said your name.
never gave a date.
never posted the receipts.

and yet you knew.

you knew.
your obsessed-ass girl knew.
your lil broken conscience knew.
your mom probably always knew.

and hey—

did your wife see?
how about the facebook friends?
did they connect the little dots?

shit.

because sweetheart—
guilt is loud,
and shame has a wifi connection.

you don’t want privacy.
you want immunity.
you want to behave recklessly
and break me in silence.

and the second that failed—
the second you realized they might actually believe me—
you pulled the classic: flailing.
“she’s crazy.”
“she’s obsessed.”
“she’s abusing me with… adjectives.”

just admit it.

you hate that someone might ask questions
you can’t answer without stuttering.

but babe—
i burn loudly.
and for y’all
that like to hide in the dark—
i’m documenting.
i’m organizing the chaos you left behind
and turning it into a warning sign for whoever’s next.

and if that threatens you?

good.

so let’s say it again, for the lurkers in the back:
if i’m the problem,
(crazy, a liar, obsessed)
why are you all still here?

you didn’t care when i was bleeding.
you cared when someone fucking noticed.

you don’t want peace.
you want plausible deniability

so sure.
call me mental.
call me a fucking pyscho.
call me whatever the fuck makes you feel like the hero
of the story you ruined.

just remember:

you came here.
you typed in my name.
you clicked the link.
you scrolled.
you read it twice.
you screenshotted it.
you cried about it.
you kept coming back.

and i didn’t even @ you.

so if i’m the problem—
if i’m the toxic one—
if i’m the “demon” and the “liar” and the “crazy bitch”—

why can’t you look away?

things i need to say to mothers: letter no. 002 — legally

my mother. legally.

i wanted you to love me.
so badly.
i still do.

i wanted you to know that even when it seems like i’m too much,
it’s only because i’ve seen too much.

but i wasn’t lying.
not once.
not when i called you,
because he was stealing from me.
not when i texted you,
because he was drinking again.

not when i pleaded,
as he drained my credit cards.
not that christmas,
when i begged you to believe me
that he was beating me.

i know how ugly it sounds.
"your little boy?"

i know.

we blame me.
the monster.
the insane one.

but the truth is—
i was third trimester,
getting my ass kicked in the hallway,
because i wasn’t the kind of woman
who would minimize the violence.

he knew that.
and it scared him.

not because i was dangerous,
but because i was honest.

i said: "be better. stop hurting us."

i said: "i’ve seen war too. so don’t think you can break me and call it trauma."

i said: "i know what cruelty looks like, and i’m still not becoming it."

and that made him feel small.
so he made me feel smaller.

i wasn’t the first.
won’t be the last.
you know that, right?

this didn’t start with me.
i know you know.
the pattern’s older than our story.

i’m sure it started with his father.
then the wars.
then the things he did
and saw
and killed
and buried.

i tell you this not to shame you.
but because i made you a promise.
and i’ve kept it.

i told you i would never cut you out.
that no matter what he became,
i would never make you pay the price.

i meant it.

i welcome you in her life.
forever.

because she didn’t ask for any of this.
i didn’t know what he was when we made her.
but she deserves a father.
a real one.

and he will never become that if no one tells him the truth.

so i’m telling you.

you have to help him.
no one else can.

i can’t.
i have our daughter to protect.
i have my life.
my body.
my spirit.
and he’s already almost broken all of it.

the addiction.
the lies.
the paranoia.
the debt.
the silence.

the threats. the bruises. the blackouts.

the bills he left me.
the pain he never cleaned up.

i almost died.
more than once.
and everything i put in those documents?
it was real.
it was worse.

he never tried to make it right.
not once.

the truth is—
he might die like this.
alone.
bitter.
lying to himself until the end.

and the truth is—
i still don’t want that.

i want him to know love again.
real love.
a love that protects.
a love that stays.

but he’s too far gone to find it himself.

you have to say something.
you have to do something.

because no one else will.
because he might listen to you.
because he still loves you.
even when he forgets how to show it.

this isn’t just a warning.
it’s a fucking alarm.

your son is vanishing.
he is dangerous.

and the daughter he made is growing up
with questions i can’t answer alone.

so mother.
my mother.

the only one left standing who might still see the boy beneath the mask.

tell him.

tell him the wreckage is waiting.
and to face it.

love
always,
sam

sam.

things i need to say to mothers: letter no. 001 — hail mary

this is my hail mary.
(the long shot)

i don’t know if you’ll read this.
i know you used to listen when i tried to talk.
i loved that.
i loved how you loved me.
noticed me.
made me feel like beautiful destruction.

and i’ll always love you for that.
for seeing me.

but really—
if i know the way you know your son,
then you feel it.

when something shifts in the atmosphere.
when the pain returns.
when he disappears a little too far inside himself,
and you wonder—
quietly—
if the boy you raised is still in there.

you know—
i know that ache.
i held it.
i loved him when he still knew how to be loved.
before it hardened.
before the light in his eyes
became something he had to guard.

you saw it, too.
i know you did.
you always knew what we were.
even before we did.

and i know now
that you carry shame no one should have had to carry.
shame for what you missed.
shame for what you couldn’t fix.
shame for trying to mother
while healing from the places that tried to break you.
(me too)

but this isn’t blame.
(we both deserve grace)

this is a plea.

and if you’re still here—
then you’re here for a reason.

and it’s probably because
you know i’m telling the truth.

you know i see him.
clearly.

you know i had the key to the version of him
that still bled when things mattered.
that still cracked open for softness.
and it wasn’t just about us.
not in the romantic way.
not anymore.

this is about him.

and her.

and you.

because there was a moment—
i swear—
(just a second ago)
where he saw it, too.
where we almost imagined the life
where he stepped up.
where he became that man
on purpose.
with presence.
with intention.

we talked about it—
what it would look like
for him to show up.
to stay.

(and not for me—
for her.)

and i think he really wanted to.

i felt him want to.

we stared at each other.
i told him i could help—
he knew i meant it—
but he’s terrified.
terrified i’m the enemy.
a wolf hidden in sheep’s clothing.
(i am not)

and
he ran.
even though he knew
it was right.
even though he said yes.
even though.
he promised.
but he got scared.
(he said he would)
and he ran.

and i know you don’t want to hear this part.
(his heart is so gentle;
so beautiful.)

but i swear—

now he lies.
he’s mean.
he’s even cruel—
not out of malice,
but to spare himself
from the weight of accountability.

he ghosts like a man dodging landmines.
he rewrites the story
so he doesn't have to face
what he did.
what he does.
what he still won’t name.

he’s not cold because he doesn’t care.
he’s cold because caring would cost him the illusion
that he’s still emotionally surviving.
that he’s ok.

but mother—
he’s not.
he’s drowning.
he’s hardening.

and that’s the part
i think you already know.
the part that keeps you awake sometimes.
because this version of him—
this distant,
detached,
sharpened shell—
this isn’t your boy.
not the one we both knew.

and i know you don’t want to believe that,
but i need you to hear it anyway.

he breaks me so heavy,
i can’t hold it by myself anymore.
(he abandons me—
brutally.
every time he can’t avoid
the truth in my eyes.)

he will keep running from me
because he can.
because enough people have said
“yeah, she’s crazy.”

but i’m not.

i’ve made mistakes—
god,
i’ve made them.
but i’m not crazy.

i’ve just walked too long with ghosts
no one wanted to bury.
or name aloud.
and one of the only things i’ve ever known
as true
was this love.
from this man.

but he won’t heal
until he’s brave enough
to jump timelines.

until he lets it all die
so something more courageous can live.

and

you are the only one
who can get him there.
who remembers the softness.
who isn’t afraid to say—

i know what you used to be.
and i know who you could become.

so please.

if you have it in you—
confront him.
pull him out.
say the thing no one else will.

because he will run forever
if no one makes him stop.
he will vanish into himself
and call it survival.

help me—
i can’t reach him anymore.

and not for me.

for him.
for her.
for you.
for the boy you raised
and the man he could still be.

love
always,

sam.

…


p.s.
**
watching what he’s becoming—
i know it will be irreversible.

but i still saw the glimmer in his eyes.
it’s still there.
i think there’s time.

he needs bravery.
clarity.
accountability.
(a mirror)

sos.

bitch. what the actual fucking fuck.

no like—what the actual fucking fuck.

how do people live like this?
how do they say words
they never intended to follow through on
with a straight face,
while looking you dead in the eye—
like they’re doing you a favor
by lying eloquently.

i’ve heard it all.
“i’ll help with law school.”
“i’m gonna help you and your daughter”
“you can count on me.”
“i’m not going anywhere.”
“i’m different.”
“i won’t let you down.”

oh, okay.
monologue-worthy.
award-winning.
and not a single ounce of shame,
just vibes and a fantasy—
they never intended to subsidize.

like… did y’all black out when you said that?
or was it just fun for you to pretend
you were a good person for five seconds?

because if you’re gonna lie,
at least
sweat a little.
at least look
slightly uncomfortable.
at least try to act like
you understood the fucking weight of the words coming out of your mouth.

but nah.
they said it all
with soft eyes and steady tone—
and left the wreckage for you to clean up.

and you—
you sweet,
delulu,
soft-hearted baddie—
you want to believe them.
you still do.

you want to believe people are good.
that they’re just confused.
that maybe,
if you’re patient enough,
kind enough,
clear enough,
they’ll rise to meet you.

you still think
love is contagious.
you still think
maybe if you love someone well enough,
they’ll start acting right.
start showing up.
start softening.

and sometimes?
they do.
sometimes
they surprise you.
sometimes
they show up with real energy,
real care,
real follow-through.

but let’s not pretend you don’t know the other kind.
the ones who say the right things
with no intention of doing any of them.
the ones who
say the line,
hold your gaze,
and walk away without looking back—
without hesitating.

you’ve seen it.
you’ve felt it.
you’ve clocked it in real time.
but instead of cutting it off,
you wrote it a redemption arc
it never fucking earned.

baby—
hear me,
i know you don’t want to…
but you’ve got to let them all go.

you saw the pattern.
you notice everything.
you just hoped,
this time,
you were misreading it.
because the alternative?
is admitting
they were all
intentionally—
fucking with you.

and that—
that’s what makes this kind of manipulation
so cruel.

because baby,
you know:

they don’t forget.
they don’t get overwhelmed.
they’re not confused.

they just don’t give a fuck about you.

and that’s not your fault.
but it is your responsibility
to stop letting people
hurt you twice.

once was their choice.
twice is yours.

so yeah.
babe—
you can still be soft.
you can still hope.
but let’s not do the whole
“maybe they meant well” thing again.

they didn’t.

you know what it is.
please act like it.

author’s note, for the pressed.

babe.
zoom out.
reread.
breathe.

no name.
no handle.
no timestamp.
no screenshot.
no receipts.

but you’re so sure you’re exposed here?

like bro.
get real.
be fucking serious.
you’re spiraling over vibes and punctuation.
but the fact that you think it’s obvious?
baby… that’s a confession.

you think i wrote a whole emotional odyssey
to talk about your three-episode arc in my life?

girl.
be fr.
i’ve dated entire subplots.

lil boyfriends no one ever met.
frenemies i never posted.
situationships so cursed
even god closed his eyes.

whole eras
that didn’t make the story slide.

i’ve had great romances no one even knows existed.
exes who ghosted themselves.
exes i married.
exes i buried.

so when you’re rage-texting,
deep scrolling,
screenshotting—
link sharing…

just remember:
you’re the only one
who thinks it’s so obvious.

my girls don’t know.
my own mommy had to ask.

because that’s not the point.

this isn’t exposé.
it’s exorcism.

this isn’t revenge.
it’s recovery.

this isn’t a caption.
it’s scripture.

i don’t need to post the proof.
i am the proof.

and if the shoe fits?
lace that bitch up.
run it into the ground.
trip.

title: emergency contact

people will really watch you drown—
quietly, from ten minutes away.
joint in hand.
good intentions;
but mostly
ungrounded vibes.

“we’ll help.”
“we’ve got you.”
“you’re not alone.”
no really, it’s fine.
i believed you.

until the logistics started breaking.
until the absence got louder than the support.
until you knew exactly what i needed and still didn’t ask.

you kept swinging by,
but never when it counted.
and never without making sure i knew
you were soooo busy.
already on your way somewhere more important.

and the messed up part?
i was still glad you came.
because yeah—
you know i’m doing all of this alone
with a toddler, a dog, and a disaster.
and adult contact—
felt like a miracle.

but now i look back and think:
that was never real support.
that was optics.
drive-by solidarity with a guilt-free exit plan.

you texted, though.
so.
we’re good.

it’s not even the missed support.
it’s the math not mathing.

you said you’d help me rebuild.
said you’d ask around.
said you’d put something in writing—
easy.
you saw what i was dealing with.
you saw me.
and then the thing came and went,
and i’m already sitting there,
shaking,
waiting for basic shit that never came.
but yeah—
go off.

“so proud of you.”

felt super seen.
really.

i crawled out of hell
and came back to damage
and dirt you left behind.
lost real cashflow because
“down to help”
turned into
“doing you a solid.”

you showed up
to smoke.
to talk.
to vent.
to get your lil refill.
but never to actually help.

(like yo—can i check the mail homie?)

and even when i paid you—
for bullshit.
for labor.
for cleaning up messes that weren’t mine—
you still acted like i should’ve left a tip
for the inconvenience.

i don’t know.
maybe it’s on me for thinking friendship meant access both ways.
but you keep your life locked up so tight,
i didn’t even clock how irrelevant i was in it.
the pit stop.
the mirror.
the backdrop.

never even met your core people—
wasn’t a coincidence,
was it?

but it’s clear now.
you liked the aesthetic of being there for me.
you just never planned on actually doing it.

(shout out to the ones that did show up;
even if we were strangers,
even if we weren’t that close.
even if we hadn’t talked in years.
you fucking saved me.)

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.

why are you doing this

because it needs to bleed out of me.

because when grief piles so thick,
every memory cuts into the next,
there’s nowhere else to go.

i’ve tried therapy—
the quiet rooms,
the worksheets,
the sympathetic nods
from people who never lived
a moment of what broke me.

i’ve tried friends,
family,
tried my mother,
tried silence,
screaming,
journals,
holding it in,
letting it out—
everything.

but i've echoed into silence my entire life.

they understand a piece—
the heartbreak,
the violence,
the loneliness—
but never all of it,
never the layered grief
that stacks so high you can’t breathe.

so i learned to drown quietly,
holding pain i couldn’t share,
carrying weight
that should’ve killed me.

and now i have a daughter.

and if i don’t get this pain out of my body,
it will eat me alive.
it will rot me from the inside.
and it will leak.
onto her.

onto her soft, new life.
and i won’t let that happen.

so i write—
because it’s the only way the pain leaves
that doesn’t feel like punishment.

you wonder why i write about love—
why i write about loss.
because even losing love,
the deepest grief i’ve known,
is still not the ugliest.

the ugliest parts stay quiet.
they slip out sideways,
hidden in safer stories.
the truly brutal things
are whispered between lines,
because there’s still no one
who can hold the weight.

so i’m left alone
with a baby and a dog who can’t talk,
friends scattered,
family erased,
holding grief that has nowhere else to go.

i’m grateful for this quiet life.
grateful to have survived.
but gratitude doesn’t erase trauma,
doesn’t soften loneliness,
doesn’t dissolve pain.

why do i write?

because when no one’s there to listen,
this page is all that’s left.

because if i don’t write,
i feel like i won’t survive it.

because the truth needs somewhere to go
to remind me it all happened,
to remind me i’m still here—
still breathing,
still alive.

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.