I’ve been doing math my whole fucking life.
Not algebra. Not calculus.
Murder math. Survival calculus.
The invisible equation you run before you open your mouth.
If I say this, do I die?
If I enforce child support—does he snap?
If I tell the truth—does he drive across the country?
If I stop pretending I was ever in love; that maybe even it was never that deep for me—
do I end up a true crime?
Because here’s the real equation:
Half of femicide victims are killed after they leave.
Seventy-five percent were stalked beforehand.
And still—I see the numbers.
So I do the math.
I always do the fucking math.
Every time I speak.
Every time I post.
Every time I call them what they are.
Every time I choose to be happy.
And still, I feel it—
Right behind me.
People say I’m glowing now.
They say I look peaceful.
That single motherhood suits me.
That I’m brave.
And all I can think is:
This is me at my most killable.