(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.