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.

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.)

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.