encore: truly; thank you…i unburdened <3

yo.

for real:
thank you for giving me the mic.
i didn’t think i’d get this moment.
but now that i’m here?
damn.
felt good to get that off my chest.

thank you for showing up.
you really could’ve kept scrolling.
you could’ve stayed unbothered.
you could have easily continued
to pretend i was just invisible.

but nah—
you didn’t
you commited to hearing me out.
<3

so thank you for clicking.
thank you for showing up with
visible ip’s and equally visible anger.

ping ping ping
babe, i’m just auto replying
to you screaming from behind glass.
(it just looks like silent screaming tho?)
and hey—
that was the point.
thank you.
i have unburdened.

(but seriously,
girl,
if it helps—
keep talking to yourself in the comment thread.
it’s almost like,
therapy right?)

you really came—
you watched.
you spiraled.
defended yourself to a creative essay—
poem at best.
you probably screenshotted it for your family group chat.
discussed. strategized.
maybe even tried to write a think piece.

i didn’t read it.
but i felt the traffic spike.
and honestly?
respect.

also—
quick question.
when you showed your partner,
your husband,
your man or whoever’s laying next to you trying to ignore the tension in your forehead—
what’d he say?

did he smirk?
did he pretend to be outraged?
like, “wow babe, how could she say that?”
(☠️☠️☠️)
was he offended for you?

or did his face twitch—just a little—
like he recognized himself?
because hey—
here’s a secret:
he knows.

he’s seen it.
he ran through the links.
he felt the read.
and deep down,
you both know I’m not lying.

(although he might
still show up in the comments
for optics…
for the love of god please do.
☠️☠️☠️☠️☠️☠️)

this whole thing?
probably gonna come up in your next argument.
he’ll deflect.
you’ll doubt.
but that seed’s planted now,
isn’t it?

hey—
you think he’ll show his friends?
private clown-town session?
(he would fucking never!)
lol. cool. no totally.
he would never.

so again—
thank you.
for the clicks.
for the projections.
for the engagement.
for the accidental press tour.

thank you for reading my essays.
my poems.
my art.
my personal expression of hell.
it means a lot.

and still—
i should note:
this is actually a very inclusive burn book.
equal opportunity.
there are love poems.
there’s true gratitude.
there’s angelic-like behaviors,
and then—
there’s you.

the treacherous gremlins.

you deserve your little fucking corner in hell
on the sub-fucking-plot
of my link-on-link-on-link-on-link-on-link
in a dark corner of my personal website.

coded. embarrassing. unclaimed.

(why am i lol’ing? like internal monologue is giving evil villain…
damn. i’ve been studying too long…)

but still—
your attendance is noted.
your energy was clocked.
and the silence?
archived.

this has been great.
i’m healed-ish.
you’re…still you.
and the mic?
yeah, i’m keeping it.

goodnight.

the silly bitch prequel

starring: one very silly bitch w/ trauma jr.
rated g.
ronald regan or some shit.

🖤🖤🖤

honestly,
you’re irrelevant;
but the story kinda slaps
as comedic relief.

…

ah yes.
the one who came before.
the big-eyed prototype.
the emotional support party girl
who co-piloted a ptsd combat vet
like that was something you were qualified for
because—
wait—
your parents… got… divorced.

honey.

you are like thirty.
a whole-ass adult.
with a job.
and still crying like a background extra in a cw show?

bitch, this is not dawson’s creek.

this wasn’t trauma.
this was tuesday.
this was "mom cheated on dad"
babe— you’re 30
have you not experienced a real problem?
yet, suddenly
you’re doing coke in a shared van
like you’ve seen some shit.

like you’ve seen battle.
ma’am—
you survived passive-aggressive holiday dinners
and still thought that made you his twin flame.

bitch—

you didn’t survive war.
you survived a group chat argument and a stepmom.
(did someone even throw shit, any blood…at all?)

and now you think you and the vet are trauma twins?
nah, babe.
you’re just a silly bitch.

you shared a car.
with a grown man.
on purpose.
while doing drugs.
but yeah, you’re the blueprint.
you’re the “deep one.”
get a fucking grip.

yo—
his mom called you an animal at one point.
said you could barely stand
via alcoholism.
because the “shit you’ve seen”
was just that real.

are we serious?
bitch—am i getting punk’d?

yo—
he probably loved you.
because truthfully he was dramatic as hell too.
complete diva.
y’all probably slayed.
til he went home with another random bitch at the NYE party.
silly bitches.
silly prizes.

🖤

honestly? me and the starter wife
(that girl had jesus, and patience, and apparently threw a filing cabinet, i fucking salute you)
could run a relevancy panel over espresso,
compare blast radius data,
and still never bother to pronounce your name—
(like the president—or?)

because, in the immortal words of ye: “you bitches got dru-u-u-gs.”
translation: congrats on the coke-bond. trauma lite shit.

we should’ve gift-wrapped him for you—coke residue and all.
but shit—
you couldn’t even clear the ex-wife qualifying round.
despite the bathroom lines and party-girl stamina.

tragic.
because—
honestly,
you two deserve each other.

support the troops baby 🇺🇸
\\

god bless. may the devil skip you
🖤

(babe, i know u saw this—texas: ping ping. shit’s funny right? u laughed. silly bitches)

yeah, hun. you are the bitch in question 🖤 xox

🖤🖤🖤

nah
yeah, bro.
i linked it.
(yo i dropped multiple—
you’re just bitch 1, 2, 3…
or, a subplot?
fuck it idc)
yeah,
it was about you.
did it hurt?
oh—shit.
….

ok well—
you left me in utter fucking flames, bitch.
left me in ruins.
not even a second thought.
did i ruin your little scroll moment?
good.
shut the fuck up.

but hey—
could’ve been someone else, right?
could’ve been
“wow, that reminds me of so-and-so.”
except it wasn’t.
it was,
“oh. shit.
the bitch is me.”

and yeah.
the bitch is you.
i didn’t stutter.

you saw it and knew.
your hands started sweating.
your stomach turned.
not because i lied,
but because i didn’t.

and it’s gross.

(and babe—i haven’t slept in 48+ hours,
but i can still clock your epic-level betrayal
with surgical fucking precision.
because it’s that tangible.
because it still lives in my chest cavity like a nail gun.)

and now you’re out here playing shocked?
like you didn’t make every single line possible?
nah.
be serious.

this post?
this little link you’re so pressed about?
this is literally all i have left after the wreckage.
this is the closure you never gave me.
a fucking google doc with feelings.

you think this is cruel?
nah, bro.
what’s cruel is knowing how bad it got for me
and how you didn’t give a single fuck.

🖤

i gave you everything—
(probably for a decade)

and you gave me
bullshit.
abandonment.
your silence as i died in slo-mo.

but the second i write a paragraph that makes you feel personally attacked?
you’re suddenly spiritual and sensitive again?

suddenly you have time?

nah.
keep that energy.
take it back to whatever sad little room you’re sulking in.
(it’s probably fucking dirty)

🖤

this wasn’t libel.
this was just me finally telling the pathetic truth
in a way you finally couldn’t interrupt.
or ignore.

or spiritually bypass with chakras or some shit.

and guess what?
you’re still the only one who knows it’s you.

which is kind of hilarious.
and kind of fucking pathetic.

anyway—
cry about it.
or don’t.
idc.
either way, you earned it.

🖤🖤🖤

and now you’re pingin’ my fucking inbox.
leaving little comments.
typing up sad girl defenses like you’re about to get cross-examined.
girl, be so for real.

you didn’t have ten minutes to bring me a wawa coffee,
but now you’ve got paragraphs?

nah.
get the fuck out of my inbox.
go cry to your husband or whatever.
you missed your shot when i needed help—
now all i hear is delusion as you defend yourself against a poem.

go get a job.
a life.

or
get fucked.

so—
which bitch is you?
are you the hippie bitch fraud?
the jesus girl bitch who can’t read?
the bitch who got a glow-up from my true crime survival narrative?
the sub-plot bestie bitch that didn’t even make a full character arc?

mm.
sounds familiar,
doesn’t it?
all sound equally shitty—
but also…
accurate.

if the bitch type fits.
wear it, hoe.

sermon on the trailer porch

a scripture study for the sanctified delusional (aka the pick-me in her jesus era)

**fuck it, i’m on a roll. let’s go mother-mary-lite-delusion.
a lesson on jesus and the bible you never read.

i.

“the woman folly is loud; she is seductive and knows nothing.”
— proverbs 9:13

bitch, please.
(let’s go slut—
full dissection)
you quoting scripture
from a pinterest board
after raw-dogging your jailed boyfriend’s
roommate on molly?
loud?
absolutely—
because silence would force accountability.
seductive?
trailer-trash at best,
desperate at worst.
knows nothing?
girl,
you think leviticus
is a harry potter spell.

next.

ii.

“for such people are not serving our lord christ, but their own appetites. by smooth talk and flattery they deceive the minds of naive people.”
— romans 16:18

you didn’t find god—
you found an alibi.
that baby was not salvation;
it was crisis PR.
your "spiritual awakening"
is just an extended apology tour
with bad acting
and worse bible interpretation.
(girl—read)

babe,
stop preaching forgiveness
when you’re still living in a dumpster fire.

iii.

“you will know them by their fruits.”
— matthew 7:16

and your fruits?
toxic smoothies only:
— babydaddy on state-mandated exile
— child wielded like a personality trait
— stolen vibes from a woman you tried to out game but couldn't stop obsessing over
— theology built entirely from instagram quotes and low-level literacy,

congrats on turning trauma
into your manipulation mechanism.
bold strategy.
it’s not working.
you’re giving—
expired before 30.

iv.

“whoever digs a pit will fall into it; if someone rolls a stone, it will roll back on them.”
— proverbs 26:27

this bitch pissed on my grave.
but guess what?
i climbed out—
hoe.

now watch obsessively,
like a ghost haunting
your own murder scene.
ironic.
pathetic.

v.

“do not be deceived: god is not mocked. a woman reaps what she sows.”
— galatians 6:7

let’s recap your spiritual crop:
— deceit watered by molly and bad decisions
— motherhood used as moral armor against reality checks
— scripture misquoted more times than your boyfriend lied about loving you

now enjoy your harvest:
— kid who doesn’t know which dude is actually her daddy
— trailer park wifi buffering your church-wifey delusions
— moral bankruptcy while misquoting jesus

vi. closing scene:

“you shall not commit adultery.”
— exodus 20:14

“let marriage be held in honor among all, and let the marriage bed be undefiled, for god will judge the sexually immoral and adulterous.”
— hebrews 13:4

but yeah babe,
go off—
tell us again how
abortion is unholy.
—like it's somewhere in the bible
(spoiler: it's not, you illiterate mascot for bad faith arguments).

like girl—
sick rewrite.

destined straight for hell,
am i right?

amen princess.

…

so sweetie—
if your pulse is racing right now,
you feel like the subject—
it's recognition,
not revelation.
(i know you get confused while reading)

📸 screenshot this breakdown.
send it to your trailer-hubby or facetime…2nd?? babydaddy??
(idk who the kid thinks is the dad this week)
whichever one still picks up out of sheer dna-jail-regret.

🖥️ cry while they nod like,
"yeah babe… she’s so mean,"
as they mentally clock every
manipulative thing you ever did
to trap them in your low-to-mid level fading
“i’m a cool girl” facade of fuckability.
embarassing.
delusional.

babygirl—

stop stalking me.
if you weren’t watching,
you wouldn’t be crying right now
in the double wide.

it’s giving:
— pick-me pastor’s wife vibes
— trailer theology major with a minor in jesus-manipulation
— cosplay christian influencer without reading the instruction manual

🪬 halo slipping? secure it with your delusions.
📿 guilt hitting? call it conviction.
🧿 feeling exposed? good. maybe log off and repent for real this time.

light & bullshit.

(to the peace-and-love parasite formerly known as “friend”)

🖤🖤🖤

namaste, bitch.
you didn’t build a yoga business—
you co-opted mine,
slept in late,
hid behind incense and passive aggression,
and still got praised
like you were the second coming
of Shiva in lululemon.

you weren’t a healer.
you were a white-girl burnout
in a bralette
avoiding accountability
openly lazy—
with sage smoke and soft talk.
you didn’t clean shit—
physically, emotionally, spiritually.

you tagged along for the rise:
the retreats,
the trainings,
the international clout
i paid for
with blood,
sweat,
and american express.
you reaped the benefits,
then cried sabotage
when asked to contribute
literally anything.

your only skill?
being palatable to basic white women
who mistook
your avoidant little whisper voice
for wisdom.

while i negotiated contracts,
ran ads,
booked flights,
taught heavy shit,
kept the lights on,
and ran circles
around your empty-ass aura.

you used me.
not just money—my loyalty.
free rides:
europe. asia. africa.
every room i let you into—
you couldn’t even bring friendship.

you said i was “too intense.”
i was building an empire.
you said i was “too angry.”
i was compensating for your lack of drive—
while dodging men trying to drag me to hell.

translation: labor isn’t your aesthetic, babe.

let’s not pretend you struggled.
upper-middle-class.
rich daddy.
no real trauma
you didn’t chase for aesthetics.
and still—
still—
you did nothing.
not because you couldn’t.
but because you didn’t want to.

you cosplayed “healer”
while i played crisis response team,
brand manager,
and emotional landfill.
i should’ve billed you hourly.
for the fake friendship
you dragged for years.
(i meant it bitch, clearly)

let me invest in you—
while you gave nothing back.

you failed upward on my wingtips,
mistook my loyalty for weakness,
nah, babe.
it was a fucking bailout.

you had everything—
intellect, support, access—
and chose to weaponize helplessness
while surrounded by every resource on earth.

i cleaned your house.
repeatedly.
i flew in for your baby shower,
your bridal shower,
your bachelorette,
your wedding.
held your sad-girl stories.
held your kid.
and when it was my turn?
postpartum. alone. broke. bleeding.
you went full ghost mode.

even when i was down the street
surviving hell with a newborn—
after showing up for everything—
you brought nothing.
not a “need anything?”
not a visit.
nada.
zip.

i sponsored your little life like a nonprofit—
except you never turned a profit.
not emotionally.
not energetically.
and sure as hell not intellectually.

you brought zero return.
couldn’t even cross a zip code
for my kid’s first birthday.
after my partner deuced.
no text.
no excuse.
just absence.

because you’re not busy—
you’re selfish.
entitled.
weak.

you built nothing.
just a sob story and a house too filthy to fix.

honestly?
it gives white girl pathetic.

om shanti bitch.

🖤

✶ filed under: false prophets in flowy pants
✶ see also: tarot as weapon, free rides, fake enlightenment
✶ keywords: healer-for-hire, spiritual squatter, the audacity of the unfocused

blessed & highly fucking useless

*aka how to bag a life upgrade off someone else's emergency, then go quiet when it's time to pay it back

you openly saw the bruises.
you asked the question.
said your bestie clocked,
“that doesn’t look like falling down the stairs.”
and then promptly
turned your attention to my square footage—
that might be vacant,
as i escape attempted murder.

as i panicked,
postpartum,
with a black eye
and no plan.
financially fucked
from insideous level abuse—
you looked at the blood
and saw an opportunity.
a life upgrade.
no deposit.
no accountability.
just vibes.
like my trauma was a lease deal y’all couldn’t pass up.

i fled the state.
you fled a rent deposit.
you got the condo.
your bestie got the second room.
you brought your boyfriend.
multiple dogs.
your damage.

i brought silence.
a disrespectful discount.
and the delusion
that friendship meant something.

spoiler:
it didn’t.

you got a whole-ass life upgrade.
for less.
off mine falling apart.

i paid the invoices.
you left the mess.
and then acted
like you did me—
a fucking favor.

then you fucked up my job.
that kept me afloat.
five years.
flexible.
they dropped me because you
kept switching the day.
because you gave—
not a single fuck.

no apology.
just:
“can i get a bigger cut of your business?”

of my business.
the one you disrespected
repeatedly—
for you and your bestie.
(the fucking audacity, truly)
while i was fighting for my fucking life.
you weren’t already benefiting from enough.
and i let you.
because i thought you were a real one.

but babe,

when i asked for one thing—
a simple statement—
your bestie,
who saw the bruises,
ghosted.
you got “anxious.”

really?????

not anxious about the abuse.
not anxious about me getting killed.
anxious… about being involved.

funny,
you weren’t anxious about getting involved in my discounted real estate
you weren’t anxious when there was a garage to fill with your shit,
like a free storage unit—
like
a deal to bag,
a friend to upgrade.
on my assets.
while i got punched in the face.

and you remind me to say thank you.

baby—

you were just allergic to accountability.
or showing the fuck up.
(and that will be reflected in your future)

meanwhile you paid rent late.
repeatedly.
no fines.
no overhead.
nothing.
because you deserve it all,
babe.
and i deserve to die
for thinking you were a friend.

but you had time to summon
your boyfriend’s dad’s truck
to rescue backyard twigs.
meanwhile i couldn’t get help
hauling the couch
you shoved in my garage,
so your bestie could finally afford my zip code.

you knew i couldn’t pay a sitter.
you knew i was in law school.
you knew my mom had a brain bleed.
my dad was dangerous.
my ex was still lurking,
financially choking me out.

you knew i had no safety net.
just a literal prayer
and pure will to survive.

and still—you said:
“i got you.”
then dipped.

your bestie?
the one who clocked the abuse before i even delivered—
wouldn’t even text back.
i asked if she could help,
she said, lol sorry.

you both moved in on my lowest moment,
lived good off my panic,
then left me on read
when reciprocity knocked.

you got to feel helpful.
you got the optics.
you got content.

but when it came time to actually
show up?

it was just me.
with a baby.
and the ghost of your promises
fucking haunting me.

you gave me a used hoodie.
i gave you a home.
you handed over a parka—in may.
i gave you profit share and income.

you said,
“if anything ever happened to you,
i’d raise your daughter.”
babe,
you won’t even babysit
so i can make class.
when it costs you nothing.

and it will literally save our lives.

you cried about how hard your day was
while i was out here
post-trauma,
solo-parenting,
struggling to buy food,
no support,
just missing law books
missing furniture
your bullshit—
and pure fucking adrenaline.

and you still made it about you.

what the fuck is that.
really,
who raised you.

(honestly,
i wouldn’t know—
never met them)

girl—

hope you’re surrounded by real ones.
you’ll need them one day.

hope you don’t drown.

…

p.s.

but honestly,

your best friend uses people,
your man seems indifferent,

and—

girl.

you.
can.
rot.

unsent bullets ✶

(thoughts i don’t say out loud because they’re true and therefore…mean.)

➔ sprinting toward a boyfriend who won’t slow-jog to a ring—full joker parade, confetti included.

➔ no, i don’t think you’re hot—hit the gym, hit a vegetable, idk...man.

➔ baby, it’s weird—right? how your side-girl still obsessively refreshes my feed while simultaneously flunking self-respect 101—remedial clown hours.

➔ no—yeah, letting kids get abused on your watch, willingly and knowingly…makes you a bad mom. no footnotes, no sympathy credits.

➔ babe, you’re sobbing over the walmart-wife starter pack while her legal husband sleeps next to her in the double-wide. next channel.

➔ bro, i don’t need your sad-boy trauma powerpoint—can you even google “how to ask a question?” no slow clap.

➔ your son’s not misunderstood, ma—he’s incompetent. stop bubble-wrapping his spinelessness.

➔ dream girl? please. you raw-dogged her in the backseat while your babymama grew your spawn. gold star for trash.

➔ wild that you pitched “let’s make a family” then bolted like a toddler who heard the word “bedtime.” talk about babydaddy speed-run to ghost-mode.

➔ your entire travel life “arc” was my summer filler episode in 2015. skip.

➔ all that hype and your dick still stuttered—aren’t you thirty? book a doctor, seek help. no, it’s not normal.

➔ never volunteered for the mouth-to-soft-serve rescue. hard pass. abort mission.

➔ you’d crucify a woman for outdated-recycled-gym-thirst-traps, yet you rolled in serving santa-belly beta. update the files, jesus christ.

➔ jealousy isn’t a personality, babe—it’s giving incognito stalker with push alerts on. get a hobby.

➔ him? hubby folklore: absentee babydaddy, wants a wife to bankroll his broke-boy fantasies. comeback tour cancelled.

➔ insecure over a single-mom law student escaping dv? weird flex. seek therapy, not my socials.

episode: casting call closed / wtf was that???

season 1–3: the collapse of the male ego under pressure

let’s clock the progression:

✶

season 1
trauma-bonded ex.
emotionally unavailable,
but the sex eventually showed up.
the origin story.
(my classic “maybe i can fix him” arc.)
now blocked for public safety:
for now.

✶

season 2
marine vet baby daddy.
sleeve tattoo,
certified “my trauma is hotter than yours.”
lifetime achievement award—
for cheating and ghosting.
sexual chemistry off the charts,
until it wasn’t.
emotional capacity below sea level.
just vibes and military-grade shame.
(also blocked)

✶

season 3
LA ese—
spiritual gangster edition.
half holy water,
half hood rat,
all hot-mess.
fronted like a powerlifter,
delivered “retired teddy bear.”
brought roses,
a toy for my kid,
treats for the dog—
and then, plot twist:
when it was time to bring the d,
all systems failed.
(almost blocked)

…

what is this new strain of soft boy energy?
not “emotionally open.”
not “nurturing king.”
just like—dicks down, vibes up, expectations in hell.

i didn’t ask for perfection.
but like…
you insisted.
you showed up dying to just.
please.
touch me,
then got stage fright when the lights came on.

bro. you invited yourself to the performance.

and baby?
it wasn’t just nerves.
it was misrepresentation.

if i pulled the same stunts?
if i showed up looking like a bait-and-switch,
(little softer than my pics?)
or asked you to have my baby,
or blurted out my hubby life fantasy—
or couldn’t get wet,
or trauma-dumped for hours,
or gave mid-level chemistry,
and got mad when he didn’t want round two?

yo—
i’d be clowned for eternity.
truly, they would be cruel to a bitch like this.

but men?
they expect mercy.
they expect a second shot.
they expect my libido to apologize for their dysfunction.

i’m just supposed to lay there,
quietly flattered?

no, babe.

this isn’t a romcom.

…

but here’s the real arc:

they’re failing because
they know the product doesn’t match the packaging.
the body doesn’t lie—
and their dicks are snitching.

season 4?
auditions closed.

fucking pathetic.

✶

✶ miracle entry: the bitch who bodied god

this one’s not for the
“let me know if you need anything” crowd.
not for the girls who ghost when the group chat gets too real.
not for the ones who send a heart emoji
when you say you might not make it.

this one’s for the realest bitch i know.
the bitch who saw the apocalypse
and booked a flight.

no sermon.
no permission.
no
“thoughts and prayers.”
she just landed in the rubble
like a fucking emergency response team
armed with hugs,
humor,
and a Costco
executive membership.

she came with receipts—literal receipts.
target, homegoods, marshalls, costco receipts.
Costco bulk survival inventory
that fed me for six months.
like she said:
“oh you need flour, oil, diapers, fruit, seaweed snacks, toilet paper,
a small army’s worth of cleaning products?”
bitch got all of it.

and not one single thing was performative.
no selfie.
no story post.
no “look how generous i am.”

she just filled my fridge.
stocked my cabinets.
handed me air when i couldn’t fucking breathe.

and here’s the wild part:
we hadn’t even seen each other in years.
she didn’t even ask for the saga.
she just remembered who i was.

she remembered every single small way
i’d ever shown up for her.
the dishes.
the babysitter.
the late night texts.
the love letters i wrote into acts of service.
she clocked it all.
held it like treasure.
and when the storm hit me?
she brought the ark.

this bitch took my baby to Target.
took her to the park.
held her like blood.
while i stood in the corner of my own life,
trying not to disintegrate.

she built the fucking furniture.
every. single. piece.
i watched her at 1am,
screwing in the legs to my new beginning
like my stand in husband
with an actual braggable dick.
like i mattered.
like this whole thing wasn’t a disaster—
but a rebirth.

and she showed up again.
and again.
and again.
never once with conditions.
never once keeping score.

when i looked like grief,
she saw gold.
when i looked like a charity case,
she saw a friend.
a warrior.
a mother worth saving.

and look—
she’ll brush this off.
she’ll downplay it.
laugh at the words.

but i know what she did.
and if there’s a god,
she was taking notes.

she is a one-woman salvation army.
a renaissance painting with a debit card.
the half i didn’t marry.
the safety net i didn’t dare dream of.
the miracle i never saw coming.

so let me be clear:

give her a fucking crown.
give her a national holiday.
saint real bitch of survival.

i hope she reads this.
i hope she ugly cries.
because the world will never deserve her.
but i got saved by her anyway.

✶

✶ 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) 💄🖤📉

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.