you were never the plot.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and it’s rotting you.

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

still everything you tried to imitate.

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

hope it was worth it.