men that tried to fight me.

[she’s “you might be able to kick my ass, but i will also swing on sight” energy]

been that bitch since birth—
just built different.

they think just because i say,
“nah, that little troll has a homicidal wish,”
just because i register the threat
like a walking true crime episode,
that you’ve gotta be passive or weak.
baby—
two things can be true.
yeah, he’s dangerous.
yeah, he could kill me.
and also?
the audacity makes me wanna swing first.

welcome.
a multi-generational,
multi-abuser,
multi-era beatdown by me:
a hot,
sleep-deprived
apex predator
with a vendetta
and an attitude too big for my body.

i’ve been fighting men since before i lost my baby teeth.
since before i knew what a trauma bond was.
and somehow—every single one of them
looked shocked when i hit back.

like oh nooo she’s hostile.
no, bitch.
i just don’t take getting my ass beat—
lying down.

so yeah—
i’ve been dialing up this fight playlist
since i was a kid with
skinned knees and big moods.
got into it with my dad first—
didn’t phase me.
he threw…everything.
always breaking and brutalizing.
so—
i threw hands with a kid’s rage
and my brother’s metal baseball bat.

then came mr. long-term bad attitude™,
the little man energy.
his strategy?
“pin her down,
maybe she’ll shut the fuck up”
lol, honey,
i scrapped back so hard
he paused mid-pin and went,
“damn, you’re strong.”
like it was a compliment
and not the sound of him
being a punk ass bitch.
but bet.

next one didn’t hit—
but he told me once
he thought about it.
you really said out loud
“i thought about hitting you”
like that was something to share.

like—
you little bitch,
i’m like a buck twenty.
imagine standing across from your girl
thinking, “damn, i might have to fight her.”

congrats, babe.
you passed the world’s lowest bar.
the “didn’t commit felony assault”
club is very exclusive.

next one tried to fight me pregnant.
yup.
you heard that right.

full belly. baby kicks. maternity sweatpants.
and he looked at me like it was go time.

like “what would really spice up my war crimes résumé?”
oh, right—WWE’ing a woman
in her third trimester with a slight wobble.

and bro—
6’ full grown
when he came for me with my baby inside?
feral.
i was like game,
fucking.
on.
motherfucker.
i fought for my fucking life.
he won.
i got my ass kicked.
over
and
over.
but best believe—
i would’ve died trying.

listen,
i used to climb kitchen countertops
for a tactical advantage over
my dad.
you think you scare me?
nah.
i was choosing which bat to grab
at age nine.

i’ve been battle-ready
since the era of light-up shoes.
trauma taught me how to throw hands.
you’re not scary—
you’re just loud and emotionally underdeveloped.

you raise your voice?
i’m already calculating exits.
you step forward?
cool.
i’ve got a flashback,
a plan,
and a grudge.

i’ve fought men who were legally allowed to tuck me in.
i’ve fought men with combat experience,
with marriage licenses,
with little man god complexes.

you think you’re dangerous
because you did some pushups and slam doors?
lol.
i’m the fucking consequence.

you think it’s wild i didn’t die?
babe.
(me too)
i thrived.
you fed me violence
and i said,
if you insist.

so yeah—
you went full geneva conference violation
on a woman bankrolling you
while trying to make your child.
how strong you feel, king?
big man.

and pop?
you really did that.
swung on an 8-year-old
like your masculinity was hanging by a thread
and my 3rd grade homework was the final straw.

congrats. match. set. slay.

but don’t get it confused—
just because i name the threat
doesn’t mean i don’t still daydream about
laying them out in a
fucking waffle house parking lot.

multiple truths.
duality.
balance.

because—
these men are dangerous.
and also a tiny car full of clowns.
yes—lethal.
and also deeply,
laughably punchable.

things i need to say to mothers; letter no. 003: my emergency interrupted her gardening

(thank you for the mortgage and the emotional abandonment)

dear mother,

thank you for your service
as the emotional support ghost
i never asked for.

you always said the right things:
“that’s awful.”
“i’m so sorry.”
“how can i help?”
and then—immediately—
you’d start a landscaping project.

like your sympathy was seasonal.

i told you the man you picked
twice
was exposing himself again.
you said “oh no,”
[made a weird hand gesture]
and then dug up decorative rocks for a corner plot.

i fled barefoot,
with a baby,
a dog,
and no cash.
(sound familiar mom?)
you were mowing the fucking lawn.
(this is not an exaggeration)

like maybe if the grass looked good,
the trauma wouldn’t stain the sidewalk.

you knew i was absolutely fucked,
eating gas station muffins to survive midterms,
in a mathmatically impossible scenario—
and raising a child while dodging hazards
from men you still entertain.
and your move?

💸 a polite little mortgage payment
🌸 and a text about your new lavender plant.
girl,
firstly—thank you.
genuinely.
because it’s more than nothing.
and it means something.

we don’t live in a car.
not like your sister had to,
with two kids,
god bless.

so yes—i am grateful.
because it got real fucking close.
and your money kept the lights on
when everything else was off.

but let’s not confuse that
with you showing up.
(translation: the patio needs power washing.)

because when i was calling you from the driveway,
with a screaming baby,
after fleeing a man you knew was dangerous,
you were—checks notes—
gardening.

when the cops were being called on my dad—again—
you were “finishing up at work.”

and when i stopped calling?

you were fucking mulching.
deadass.
factually accurate.

you love to look engaged.
but you’ve always been
just busy enough
to miss the emergency.

you perform empathy in passing—
with a soft voice and a half-charged phone—
then get back to your regularly scheduled coping mechanism:
home improvement projects no one asked for.

i learned young:
your attention is chore-based.
you’ll do anything
except what actually needs doing.
you’ll say you’re sorry,
but you will never sit in the discomfort
of being part of the damage.

and now?
you want comfort.
connection.
a role in my story
you never earned.

and yeah—
i’m still grateful for the money.
after you watched me,
again,
grab my daughter and run.
knowing what he was doing to us.
knowing why i had to come in the first place—
again.
fleeing a scene, you stopped acknowledging
only once it stopped being your problem.

depsite raising us constantly on the run.
sacrificing entire childhoods
in the name of danger
so you sacrificed us,
to save yourself.

(brava)

—but the silence?
the inaction?
it cost more than the debt ever did.

you didn’t lose me.
you just kept playing busy
until i learned not to dial your number
in an actual emergency.

ma.
you didn’t lose a daughter.
you just ran out of ways to fake being the hero
without ever actually showing up.

i wish you well.
and by “well,”
i mean:

may your hydrangeas bloom
and your daughter stop calling you from hell.

…

p.s.
i’m sorry you’re going through crisis.
thank god,
you have support.
<3

why do rich kids always look like their family tree is a circle?

(thanks for the venmo, dumb bitch.)

girl.
honestly,
i was relieved.
i took one look at you,
and was like;
damn—
for real, why does
“my dad owns property”
always come with a face
that screams recessive gene speedrun?

oh thank god, that’s the girl?
the “omg hiiiiiii”

yooooooo
please. take him.
you looked like someone who’d actually pretend to like him.

and you did.
baby—
you sent venmo
to my husband
while i was pregnant.
like you were sponsoring a rescue animal.
and baby—he was the raccoon.
and you were the trash.

and the worst part?
you were so mid
i didn’t even register you at first.
i thought,
”not with that face.
not with that voice.”
but then?
ping. ping. ping.
calls. facetime. lil texts.
venmo.

???????
girl.
god damn.
truly—
never seen this shit in the wild.
only hear about it on animal planet.
like y’all really exist.

and girl.
i did your math in 3 seconds.
i just didn’t care.
because from the minute i saw your
ski-trip selfies and gap-year side part,
i knew you weren’t why he was cheating.
emotionally, physically, how the fuck ever.
he just needed someone with no taste and no boundaries
to let him pretend he was still impressive.

you fit the job.

baby,
buy some self-respect.

your brain still register embarrassment?
truly humiliating chronology—
never in the marriage.
just cc’d on the emotional handjobs.

and girl—
you really made it

like life policies in
the 19th biggest city
made it.
girl.
cut the shit.
even your daddy’s last name couldn’t carry that flop.

a whole ass adult whose entire identity
was “i went to [insert legacy school]”
and “my dad knows a guy.”

and baby—
if you think this is about jealousy,
let me clarify:
you’re not the type anyone envies.
you’re the girl they pity,
then forget,
then re-meet three times without realizing it.

and he loved that about you.

you had the money.
(he loved that more)
the degree.
the networking events.
and still—
you couldn’t even make “insurance sales” stick
in a mid-tier city
with your daddy’s contacts behind you.

jesus christ.
boring. standard. uninspired.
the walking embodiment of what happens
when generational wealth forgets to mix the gene pool.

congrats,
babe.
you really proved the theory:
you’re living proof that evolution isn’t about fitness—
it’s about who had the most cousins on the marriage roster.
natural selection took one look and said,
“nah, let her through. we need a control group.”

you’re not survival of the fittest.
you’re an evolutionary mutation producing a mid with a trust fund.

but i mean

fuck it—
thanks for the venmo.

congrats.
you bought access to a man i was begging to leave me alone.

**pure fictional comedy; not based on any real life events :)

congratulations on being fake-nice, i guess?

yo—
what kind of conflict resolution skills are these?

so let’s be clear from the top:

passive-aggressive is not “nicer.”
it’s not “gentle.”
it’s not evolved.
it’s just uncourageous.

it’s true weak shit.

you didn’t say the mean thing out loud?
✨do you want a medal?✨
a girl scout badge in tone-policing?
a weighted blanket and a podcast for that?

because wow—look at you go.
you swallowed the truth,
faked a smile,
and hit me with the most loaded lie in the female language:
“no worries!”

bro—just get that shit out.
say what the fuck you mean.

because babe?

that’s not neutral.
that’s not helpful.
it’s just vague enough to fuck with me.
but polite enough to keep your hands clean.

you’re not a boundary queen.
you’re a silent chaos demon
in high-waisted denim and
judgmental energy.

you knew you were annoyed.
you just didn’t want to say it out loud
because then you’d have to own it.

so instead, you gave me
scheduling curveballs,
dry-text energy,
and let me spiral while you pretended everything was chill.

it wasn’t.
you weren’t.
and now i’m the one left overthinking a situation
you were too emotionally avoidant to clarify.

and girl—don’t blame patriarchy for this one.
yes, the system raised us to be small and nice and smile through it.
but you’re an adult.
you have free will and group chats and access to therapy.
you can say “hey, that didn’t sit right with me.”
but instead?
you chose psychological warfare with bad branding.

this isn’t conflict avoidance.
it’s conflict outsourcing.
and it’s manipulative as fuck.

so no—
you don’t get points for being “chill.”
you don’t get to pretend you were helping.
you don’t get to ghost your own discomfort
and act surprised when it bites me instead.

you just get clocked.
for being a fake-nice,
boring ass liability
with a soft voice and a mean streak.

xo,
the girl who’s not decoding your tone anymore

🧃🧃🧃

✶ this is financial abuse.

let’s run it back.
keep it factual.

before him?
800+ credit score.
paid-off car,
$100 car insurance,
no student loans,
a stacked savings account.
and zero drama.
i was chillin. thriving. soft-launch stable.

then enters broke boy, stage left.
no car.
no income.
just delusions of adequacy

this broke boy with big broke-boy talk:

“i can transfer my GI Bill.”
“three years left.”
“i’ll get you both health insurance. i got you.”

spoiler: he did not “got me.”

but bro.
i believed him.
because i was pregnant, underfed, overworked,
and still dumb enough to think “we” meant both of us.

so i said bet.

i gave him my paid-off vehicle.
we financed another—guess whose name it’s under?
he promised he’d cover it.
because at that point,
he’d contributed exactly $0.00 to anything that mattered.

then he drained my savings.
ran up my credit.
started using my debit like a trust fund.
cashed a $7K refund check and “invested” it
into the abyss of his non-existent career.

this man turned my financial future into a bonfire and lit the match with my last fucking nerve.

then, once i was fully underwater?

“wait… i might not actually be able to transfer the GI bill.”
“you should just take out loans.”

might need to “fill out a form or something.”

oh. word.

you took the car.
ran up my bills.
drained my savings.
fucked my credit.
left me pissed off and financially fucked.
and now you’re outsourcing your failures to me?

bro.

he promised healthcare for me and my kid.
i ended up postpartum, uninsured,
fighting the fkn Marketplace
with a newborn on my lap and a prayer.

but peak deserving of full dick removal surgery?
you wanna know why he bounced?
he dipped the second i said
“nah, i’m not liquidating my IRA
to bail you out of coke-debt van payments
from delulu binge-mistakes with your ex.”

that was his exit cue.
ghosted.
booked that flight.
left every bill still auto-drafting out of my name.
his loans. his phone bill. his mistakes.
all of it.
still draining me.

left me with a $600/month
in car payments for a vehicle i didn’t need
insurance spiked through the fucking roof
'cause babe?
he wrecked that paid-off ride
three months after he got it.
then ghosted like a broke magician
that fucked up the trick.

then this mf’er
refused to report any fucking income—
despite getting a baby income bump
from that god bless america check,
cool babe.

this bitch
owed literal pocket lint in child support
and still said “nah.”
like the whole time—
naaaaah.

venmo’d him for food money once—
he said,
go fuck yourself.

meanwhile?
i’m the one people side-eye.
the single mom “who should’ve planned better.”
who can’t “just budget differently.”
who’s “struggling for no reason.”

nah, babe.
i planned.
he lied.
i worked.
he leeched.

this wasn’t bad luck.
this was financial abuse.
it wasn’t an accident.
it was a violent blueprint.

i said “yes” one too many times
to a man who saw my stability
as his personal fkn bank roll.

this wasn’t a love story.
it was a heist.

this is financial abuse.
and if you're not scared yet—
you haven't seen the receipts.

✶

he didn’t just leave.
he left me holding the entire financial bag.

✶

call it: “how to go broke believing in potential.”

📝 legal disclaimer:
all statements herein may or may not be
based on true events, personal experience, and documented financial records.
any resemblance to your favorite emotionally stunted, financially abusive man is purely intentional.
names may be omitted, but the IRS knows exactly who tf you are.
you owe me money, babe. 💋

fuck you for watching me fight for my life.

fuck you
for seeing me in crisis
and calling it "inspiring,"
like my survival inspired your moral clarity.

fuck you
for looking at the chaos i was born into—
the bruises, the calls to 911 from strangers,
the begging adults who weren't my parents to save me—
and just nodding like it was tragic backstory,
not active fucking neglect.

fuck you
for knowing i spent my childhood
waiting on sidewalks for someone else's mom,
because mine couldn't be bothered to leave work.
for watching me explain how my own mother left me
with the same people she knew were bruising babies,
and replying:
"tragic, really."

fuck you
for acting like you gave a shit
when i called you about the strangulation—
when i told you yeah, you’re right—
he gave me those black eyes.
because i knew, i fucking knew,
he was going to kill me,
and your only response was:
"oh my god, dad did that too."
or ”wow i’m here, just not to write a statement.”

fuck you
for every friend who saw the bruises,
saw the marks on my pregnant body,
saw me literally get beaten right in front of them,
and decided silence was safer.
that it was still ok to charge me extra.

fuck you
for hearing that i fled a predator
with a baby, my car my husband fucked, and $300 in my pocket
and telling me how "strong" i was
instead of sending help.

fuck you
for pretending you didn't see
when i literally couldn't afford food.
and fuck you twice
for thinking i'd ever let that affect my kid.
i lived on coffee and spliffs
and pure fucking spite
so she would never feel hunger.

omg, you’re so hot.
lol. yeah. it’s called fumes
and financial abuse bitch.

fuck you
for sitting comfortably
in your uninfected, calm house
texting me about gardening
and drama
and shit your mom said,
while i quietly starved,
quietly panicked,
quietly drowned in paperwork and debt and desperation.

fuck you
for watching me do survival math
in real time—
childcare i couldn't afford,
classes i couldn't miss,
money i didn't have,
help that never fucking arrived—
and responding with silence
or shallow fucking anecdotes
about someone else's dumb-ass boyfriend drama.

fuck you
for seeing me on the second floor,
literally suffocating in heat,
and telling me you "left the ac unit" in my garage,
like it was generosity.
when you knew exactly who would have to
do the math on how to carry it upstairs,
alone,
with a toddler—
and you still congratulated yourself.

fuck you
for pretending you were my friend,
pretending you cared,
pretending you were anything more than another bystander
hoping the fire would burn itself out before you had to get involved.

fuck you
for letting me tell you
that i was about to physically collapse
and choosing that moment to say,
"actually, i have dinner plans."

fuck you
for all the times
i explained exactly what i needed,
and you treated it like optional listening.

fuck you
for treating my life
like a show you didn't feel like finishing.

fuck you
for hearing emergencies—
actual fucking emergencies—
and deciding your comfort was more important
than my survival.

fuck you
for being part of the reason
i had to learn, from infancy,
that nobody was coming.

fuck you
for pretending you didn't know
exactly how close i came,
over and over and over,
to not making it.

fuck you
for making survival something i had to do alone,
then clapping
when i made it to shore.

fuck you,
especially,
for calling that applause love.

fuck you
for all the times you saw exactly what was happening
and chose to pretend you couldn’t.

fuck you, genuinely,
for making it this clear:

y’all would’ve let me fucking die.
you did.

fuck you for watching me fight for my life.

this is not a joke. pay attention.

they nod.
they smile.
they say “damn, that’s crazy.”
and then go back to their little lives.
like i didn’t just hand them
a warning label
on my own.

they hear the words.
they just don’t want the responsibility of understanding them.

but she does.
my best friend.
because she was there.

she was there when
i transferred my life insurance
into her name.
as trustee.
not just in theory—legally.
because if i get fucking offed,
somebody has to raise my daughter
who isn’t a monster
or bloodline adjacent.

she was there when we ran scenarios:
do you come now?
or do you stay put,
so that if something happens,
you’re not collateral damage—
you’re the one who survives.
and gets her.

she was there
when i rewrote guardianship letters.
when i sent her PDFs, passwords, plans.
when i said,
“this isn’t just in case.
this is likely.”

and she listened.
because she knows
i don’t say this shit lightly.

you think i’m spiraling?
nah.
i’m installing extra ring cameras.
reinforcing gates they made me take down.
price-checking glocks.
researching shooting ranges.
calling shelters until they answer the phone like,
"hey sam."

you think i’m being dramatic?
cool.
you ever lived in the same condo
where he beat the shit out of you
while you were nine months pregnant?
you ever had the thought flash across your brain—
(mid rapid-fire punch to the head)
“his child is fully formed inside me and he’s doing this…
so what the fuck is he gonna do when she’s out?”
you ever looked at your toddler and thought,
i need five more years of surviving
or she’s going back to him?

but sure.
tell me again about
your “wellness boundaries.”
or your busy schedule.

you think i’m paranoid?
i think you’re clueless.
or comfortable.
or both.

you said
“just file a protection order.”
bitch?
is that a joke?
i did.
and guess what?
paper doesn’t stop rage.
(or manipulation)
paper doesn’t lock a door.
paper doesn’t save your fucking life.

so no.
this isn’t a cry for help.
this is the record.
this is the notice.
this is the fucking deposition.

and if something happens to me,
ask her.
she has the receipts.
she has the screenshots.
she has the timeline.
she has the documents you all skimmed
like it was a fucking side plot.

i made it easy.
i spelled it out.
i literally handed you
a step-by-step update
on how at risk i am.
and you said,
“lol. yeah. got it. good luck.”

really, bitch?

when you act shocked later,
just know—
this was never a mystery.
this was the memo.
you just didn’t read it.

blocking my entire family felt fucking incredible.

seriously.
sometimes i forget i even did it—
until i remember how stupid i used to feel
waiting for a text.
a crumb.
a half-assed “how are you?”
from people who’ve never once shown up when it mattered.

yo. you would not notice,
or fucking care
if i were
on fire
by the side of the street
as you drove by.

i know that for a fact.

blocking isn’t anger.
it’s refusal.
refusal to keep circling the drain of people
who only remember i exist when it’s convenient or performative.

no, i don’t want your “thinking of you” text.
i don’t want your pity emoji or your once-a-year “what’s up”

i want nothing,
and blocking is the only way to get that clean.

i’ve blocked my whole family.
i’ve blocked like 13 dudes from bumble in 4 weeks.
i block and unblock my exes like a petty little godspeed ritual.
ask your question, get your answer, goodbye again.

because the second you’re blocked,
you don’t even get to pretend anymore.
you’re not “checking in.”
you’re not “still there.”
you’re erased.

and me?
i’m finally free to stop loving people
who wouldn’t notice if i died.

i've been telling people to fuck off on purpose lately.

not out of bitterness.
not out of drama.
out of data collection.

i finally figured out the cheat code:
ask early.
ask small.
watch what happens.

i used to wait until i was fucking drowning to ask for anything.
but here’s the truth:
just ask.
some basic, simple shit.
free effort. light lift. no excuses.

most people will say no.

and it tells you everything.

like—
since you’re already asking to hang out,
can you stop by and hold something for a second?
can you help me figure this thing out real quick since you already know how?
can you just... show up for thirty minutes before you take?

these aren’t demands.
they’re micro-opportunities to give a fuck.

and almost every time,
the answer is no.
or it’s weird.
or it’s passive-aggressive.
or it’s suddenly “a lot.”

and that tells me more than any lovebomb ever could.

because these are people i’ve already loved—
and they still pause when the energy needs to go both ways.

so now i ask fast,
on purpose.
because i’m done waiting six months
to find out someone can’t even carry
a grocery bag without resenting me for it.

if you want access to me,
show me you can lift.
lift a moment.
lift a mood.
lift your fucking weight.

and if you can’t?
you’re not being cut off.
you’re just revealing yourself too early to make it worth my time.

ask early.
ask small.
watch what happens.
then believe it the first time.

you said get a babysitter.

you saw me drowning.
i posted —
paid help needed asap.
because no one would just help.
a hour here or there.
consistently.
while i cleaned toilets.
or navigated socratic method.
clawed my way out.

not even friends
who were “giving me all they had.”

aka: free outdoor gear from their job
while i couldn’t afford groceries.

you pop in:
“i just left my baby daddy. i’m free now. i can babysit.”

i was like; please let this be my miracle.
i’ll share anything i have;
just please help me survive this.

i asked you.
straight up.

can we be casual?
you’ve got a kid the same age.
they’re already coming too.
i’m not asking for favors.

i said:
“i can offer a lot—
and look, i’ll still pay you.
just… on the hours i’m not making money,
can you be reasonable?
not a calculator?”

i wasn’t asking for free labor.
i was asking for mercy.

then said:
“i can take on extra jobs off schedule—
i’ll go clean entire houses
alone with no sleep
and split the profits with you.”

so you’re still paid well.

you’re like “cool”
$200 pay days in a couple hours?
to stay back with my kid x 2?
with your shit?
dope.

but from the jump. it was—

not: baby, you’re dying. let’s trade.
not: let me show up for another single mom who’s clearly fucking breaking.
not: let’s build something.

just:
“i’m paid labor. i’m bringing my kid…how many hours can i get a week?

also yeah — we’re totally cool with:
-no cleaning
-no actual cooking
-getting paid fat when you clean houses solo
-eating your food,
-asking for your informal (unpaid)
extended + complex legal views,
-smoking your weed,
-sleeping over,
-creating extra laundry,
-making this insanely casual,
-trauma-bonding,
-extracting emotional labor,
-pretty much me getting paid to be a mom
-in your house
-with your shit
and just...
+keep yours alive
on the side.”

i said thank you.
so much.
i’m drowning.
this is everything to me.

…

day one:
you cancel.
you’re sick.

i say:
“hey, just so you know…
last time i got sick,
i had no one.
i was trapped for two weeks —
barely able to walk the dog,
change my kid’s diaper,
work,
pay bills,
not flunk law school.
i can’t get sick again.
it will break me.”

hint.
fucking.
hint bro.
damn.

day two:
you show up.
totally fine.
like yesterday never happened.
24 hour thing.
awesome.

i try to go to walmart —
to get weed, food,
return ink:
literally anything productive
so i can justify paying you.

i go to get in to my car—
i am blocked in.
someone’s parked illegally in the lot.
i try everything.
nothing works.

tears.
actual tears.
streaming down my face.
this was my one errand.
my one moment of freedom.
since february.
not in class.
gone.

i text you:
“i can’t go.”

you:
“no worries.”

i walk back inside.
you say:
“great, you’re back!
let me trauma dump now.”

we go for hours.
most the night.
mostly me listening.
reviewing the screenshots.
eating pizza,
feeding the kids—
i’m not even mad.
i’m happy to not be alone.
i’m happy to have a friend.

you monologue your custody issue,
your living situation,
honestly;
interrupt me every sentence,
ask me for more low-key legal advice.
really want me to help you figure this out*
we smoke my weed.
we eat my food.
your kid uses my kid’s toys, snacks, everything.
idgaf.
i have a friend.
you crash.

i’m fine with it.
so i accomplished less than nothing.
so what if tonight cost me resources
i don’t have to spare—
energy i didn’t get to recharge,
i’m building something.
this is the vibe.
this is sisterhood.

day three:

i wake up.
late for work.
move out cleaning.
they’re brutal.
you’re still in my house.

i ask:
“hey… you want to just stay with ryan while you’re here?”

you:
“yeah, i have plans… but yeah.”

ok i’ll hurry.
eat whatever.
do whatever.
use whatever.
sit on your phone.
at least i just
don’t have to carry her today.

i go to work.
i’m arm deep in a bathroom—
dripping sweat,
rushing.
you text me
from my couch:
“i’m breastfeeding.
i’m dehydrated.
can i have one of your gatorades?”
(my kid is asleep)

!!!!!!!
(let me explain)
bro.
bro.
broooooooooooo.
this honest cut through me.
i almost broke right there.
it was so fucking little.
so simple.
my literal only tiny teeny boundary.
(honestly i knew i was fucked from this moment.)
i offered you literally everything i had:
shower.
use my clothes.
eat.
drink.
vape on the porch.
do whatever.
but.
the one thing —
the one thing —
i asked you to please not to touch.
(joking, but serious; yo we are poor.)
in a separate fridge.
i told you.
i can barely afford air,
but i need these to feel alive.
i barely make it through most days.
(living on cold cereal, no sleep, coffee)
you nodded.

and then waited
until i was gone
first time i left.
so you could ask via text.

so you wouldn’t have to
look me in the face
when you did it anyway.

cool bro.
this hourly keeps going up.

i live on like nothing
but i grew up poor.
so i can fake it

but—

babe!!!!!
i could’ve just taken her with me.
left her in the carseat—next to me.
she naps sometimes.
done the clean.
my own condo would have stayed sanitized.
no two dozen toys for me to clean up after work—
no endless laundry from the bedding.
kept my weed.
my food.
(my full 12 pack of gatorade i traded for my soul)
my time.
my fucking sanity.

but no.
(maybe at least she won’t be a calculator about these “hours”…)

i come home—
sweaty.
exhausted.
responding to legal HOA emails,
my kid’s already like
WHAT’S UP BITCH
trying not to scream.
you’re still on my couch.
still talking.
still trauma-dumping.
still asking for free advice
as i stare at my screen.

and i say—
bro.
besides working
to now split the pay three ways
(between my cleaning teammate, you, and our toddler’s snack budget + supplies),
i made nothing.
i actually lost money.

i accomplished nothing.
and you rushed me.

i asked you for the bill:
2 hours for my failed errands / turned free emotional and legal aid, snacks, weed, the vibe til 3am: $40. (i owe, obviously)
4 hours to watch our kids while i cleaned: $80.

$120.

ok.
got it.

and then you say it:
“i love it here. we should live together.”

i blink.
maybe this is it.
maybe if you stay, we’ll survive.

and you won’t bill me per hour—
everyone told me i needed to find someone to help.

so i said.
ok sam.
you are slow dying.
be open.

i show you the loft.
you ask about storage
i say i have a garage.
oh free storage.
you go:
“wow. that’d save me $300 a month.”
i say:
“great. just help me survive.”

i say:
we can put the girls in the same room.
you can loft the office area for yourself.
we can make it cute. private.
make it work—
it’s not like i’m charging you half.

you say:
“if i have to loft it…
i just don’t think that’s enough space.”

not: thank you.
just:
“can i get your daughter’s room instead?”
the one i just built from scratch.
for the third time in one year.
aka: the same one you just openly admitted
to watching me create at 2am via instagram story?
by myself?

babe—you didn’t even send a rent offer.
ok. fuck. continue.

day four:

(you’re too busy to stop by so i could grab weed.
maybe on a paid day you said;
you’ll come early.
maybe…
thanks for smoking me up tho xoxo)

day five:

bitch and then.
your virus hits me.

the final kill shot in this saga.

alone with a toddler and a dog.
and law school.
down food.
down moral clarity.

i honestly cried.

and then
i got chills.
fever.
head pounding.
couldn’t sleep.
couldn’t breathe.

and still —
i showed up to class.
because i have to,
barely conscious
definitely absorbing nothing.

just a hot $520 a pop
via tuition—
to be so sick you can’t focus.

(same one you
already asked me
to summarize in detail
customized to you
for free
so you could text
your baby daddy
legal threats.)

class = 2.5 hours.
i end up not needing extra time
because i could barely move.
just dying on the couch
while you talk to me.

you bill me $80

**i said ok cool; i’ll have to work (while sick) tomorrow…………
with my kid on my back…..
to pay you for essentially
missing my law class today.
so you can chill.
and make money.

cool. this is a deeeeeeaaaaalllllll.
miracle. fucking fuck fuck.

+ noted. nothing i’ve contributed counts towards that hourly bottom line on the invoice.

(fucking fuuuuuuuuuucccccckkkkkk
i already can’t pay tuition
and am struggling with the electricity bill)

SICK.

and the bullet to the brain:
you didn’t even say sorry.
not; let me do half this day for free—
not; i’ll come tomorrow with meds and help

i’m like.
sam; you dumb fuck—
you did it again.
fell in to the
pay-per-friend model
again.
where they think they’re an employee—
but really, they just want to charge you,
one-sided. for a bad friendship—
no benefits.

so.

i finally ask:
“hey, would you be open to trading a few hours?

you:
“i didn’t sign up for unpaid labor.”

girl.

neither did i.

no words.

ok.
babe.
deep breath.

this is part of healing,
right?
you finally crack.
you say the thing
out loud.

“i need help.”
not metaphorically.
not long-term.
not vibes.
i need a warm body.
in the room.
to sit next to my kid
so i can catch up,
clean up,
pay the bills,
study for my midterm,
take the actual exam,
and not fall through the fucking cracks.

and i said it clearly.
over and over.
any day.
any time.
literally whenever.
just show up.
sit on your phone—
watch tv
eat my food
smoke my weed,
just keep her alive
while i come up for air.

and people said:
“i got you.”
“absolutely.”
“anything you need.”

but what they meant was:
“i will absolutely offer whatever costs me nothing.”

someone said:
“i wish i lived closer 🥺”
(so… you don’t. shit. but you’re emotionally adjacent. slay.)

someone said:
“can you drop her off tuesday at this exact time? that’s my only window before break.”
…
(so… i’m supposed to pack up my toddler, drive an hour each way,
burn four hours of gas and chaos
for ninety minutes of help?
is that the math?
fuck it,
i’ll sit her
with ms. rachel)

someone said they could help during my exam.
i felt relief.
at least i have that figured out.
jk
asked if i could reschedule my midterm today.
no yeah i’m serious.
”will your prof let you take it a day early?”

seriously.
fuck my life.

but now i have
2 days
to not fail
due to lack of childcare.
thank you.
god bless.

someone said:
“playdate,
but come to me!”
but you’re in a different city.
and this is not a joke.
when i said
i haven’t slept
at all
two separate nights
in one week
that was a signal
to see if you understood
this is a fucking sos
this is not a drill
(without embarrassing myself further)
it was received more like
lol i know right

!!!!!!!!!!

someone said they’d fly in.
i teared up.
i said really?!
i begged.
i offered food.
i said i was dying.
and they said lol.
“omg, i’m sure you really need that.”
i have work though

bro—
for the love of god?!
why

and yes—
some people sent money.
and yes,
we ate.
thank you.

but the truth is—
if someone had sat with me
for two hours,
just once,
i could’ve opened the mail.
filed for the benefits i qualify for.
called the A/C company.
applied for the back child support.
figured out that grant i need for tuition.
gotten my life back on track.
escaped this loop.

but i couldn’t.
because i don’t have a second body
to make sure my kid doesn’t scale a bookshelf
or sprint into traffic
while i try to log in to the state’s broken portal.

so yes,
thank you for the $100.
it fed us.
for a week.
and we’re still here.

and here’s the real kicker:
after all that—
after all the “let me know how i can help,”
after all the “you got this babe 💖”—
i still ended up
alone,
exhausted,
broke,
behind,
and somehow feeling like i had failed you
because i couldn’t make your time slot.

and the thing is, i’ve been here ten years.
i’ve run two businesses.
i’ve overpaid people.
cleaned homes for free.
fed kids.
offered trainings.
free food.
free hotel rooms.
free labor.
free vibes.

and when i said:
“i can’t do this without help.”
not one person showed up.

not one person walked through the door
and sat in the chair
and said,
“go.
do what you need to do.
i got this.”

instead i got calendar invites.
travel offers wrapped in jokes.
cash in place of presence.
and heart emojis
where help should’ve been.

so now what?
i’m tired.
i’m sad.
i’m disgusted.
i’m past heartbroken.
because i thought if i said the thing
with enough vulnerability,
someone would meet me in it.

instead, you all offered what was easy.
you offered what cost you nothing.
and then you dipped the second it got real.

you watched me drown
and asked if i had venmo.

don’t send flowers.
don’t check in later.
don’t say “i didn’t know it was that bad.”

i told you.

jesus was not the problem. he was just misquoted.

let’s be for real—

i didn’t walk away from god.
i just couldn’t find him
between the homophobia
megachurches turning profit
and savage rewrites
of their own main text.

honestly, i was like nah.
whole thing seems like bullshit
doesn’t make any sense.

because—

i didn’t grow up christian.
i grew up nothing.
no bible.
no sunday school.
no dramatic baptisms.

first time i went to church,
they told me i couldn’t eat the bread.
said it was catholic.
said i had to sit alone.
i was eight.
i thought the whole point was sharing.

wtf are we doing here?

second time?
golf trip announcements.

third?
“jesus saves”
dropped mid-barbecue flyer
but like,
yo
i remember thinking—
wait, didn’t jesus say feed people?
did he say fuck it—
just enjoy this shit?
was that in corinthians?

cause y’all got the audacity
to lecture me on taking the lord’s name in vain—
but bro.
you and jesus had wildly different priorities.
trust.

from where i stood?
shit looked delusional.

and worse—
the vibes were weaponized.

because bro,
let’s be completely honest

some of y’all use scripture
to shame girls for surviving.
to kick out queer kids.
to justify cruelty.
to vote red like jesus had a tax policy.

but baby, it does not say that.

i watched a whole subplot around abortion
that simply,
doesn’t fucking exist in the original plot.
they’re out here
blessing war,
teaching fear,
serving shame
with a side of superiority
for their bullshit.

but here’s the plot twist:

some women made me believe again.
not in the church.
but in the point.

first: my grandma.
chain-smoking til the fucking end.
used-to-be-a-gambling-addict.
maybe still was?
this bitch could
beat your ass and then cook you dinner.
5-foot-nothing,
nerves of steel.
she said she loved jesus,
but she never used it to look down.
never preached, never positioned.

she just took me to food banks.
coat drives.
anywhere someone needed help.
that was her idea of god.

she didn’t talk about jesus.
she acted like him.

next: a girl i’ve known since the swingset.
four kids.
different universe.
opposite politics.
but golden fucking heart.

when her family faced real darkness,
she said jesus carried them.
and even though i didn’t believe—
she carried me too.

no sermons.
no strings.
just care.
just consistency.

and that?
that felt holy.

so no—
maybe i don’t hate jesus.
maybe i hate the marketing team.
the merch.
the moral gymnastics.

maybe jesus was actually—
saying real shit.
you just misheard him.
maybe what he meant was
feed the people.
flip the tables.
love without leverage.

because the people
who made me believe again?
never quoted a single verse.

they just lived it.
and that saved me.

amen.
and fuck the rest.

they would set your ass on fire for toasted marshmallows you dumb bitch.

(aka: remember who tf you’re dealing with.)

okay.
bitch.
listen.
get up.

snap the fuck out of it.

i know you feel bad.
i know you care.
you always fucking care.
like a dumb bitch.
even when someone
smashes your fucking face into the ground—
8 months pregnant.
like whoopsies.

you’re like:
“but i get it.
they’ve been through stuff.
they have ptsd.”

girl.
so do you.
and you’re not out here
fighting pregnant women
and calling it trauma.

do not be a dumb bitch.
i say that with love.
and for survival.

because
they will not save you.
they will
run you over
and
blame the streets.

like “oops” bitch.
didn’t see you there.

and still;
you feel bad
that there might be consequences
for their actual actions.
meanwhile—

they’ve been fucking savage.
they left you stranded.
no money.
fucked your car.
no groceries.
no help.
on the floor.
bleeding.
alone.
mid-fucking semester.
probably with a baby.

so let’s get real.
you never snitched.
on anyone.
ever.

not when they punched doors.
not when they broke your shit.
not when they stole hundreds of pills.
not when they manually strangled your ass—

and still—STILL—
they snitched first chance.
on YOU.
TWICE.
for what?

✦ round one:
this little bitch told people
you lied about your miscarriage.
because he intentionally
got two bitches pregnant.
and when you posted the receipts?
an instagram story.
with screenshots.
bitch he called the cops.
because the truth was so ugly
he’d rather have you arrested
than admit it.

✦ round two:
this man left the state,
abandoned his wife and child,
and when you wouldn’t illegally
ship him some pills,
he called the fucking pd.
twice.
back to back.
over not committing a crime.

and those cops?
they deadass said:
“well, he’s a vet. maybe you should.”

BABY.
you could’ve lost law school.
you could’ve gotten charges.
FOR WHAT.
for not sending pills in the mail
and posting his own fucking words.

and you feel bad?
you feel guilty?
girl be serious.

they would burn you alive
to toast a smore bitch.
and then go tat
some new chick on their arm
4 days later.

but you’re over here
with survivor’s guilt
for telling the truth?

✶✶✶

baby, repeat this mantra:

they do not give a fuck about you.
they do not love you.
stop protecting these men.

law school: america’s softest bitches

(aka: america’s softest bitches running the legal system)

yo.
y’all are silly.
i just encountered an entire law firm
that practices homeowners association law.

i am not shitting you.

not a side hustle.
not pro bono.
not “we dabble in housing rights.”

no.

a dedicated, brick-and-mortar firm
where grown adults—
with bar cards and benefits—
spend all day
writing legal threats about
windchimes and trash pickup schedules.

what kind of legal bullshit is this?

bro.
how is this a psych profile?
how did the jd pipeline lead to this???

here’s how:

📌 95% of y’all were born into this and still turned out useless.

📌 3 out of 4 law students? straight-up legacy babies.

📌 your LSAT score literally rises with your parents’ income.
(congrats on your generational vocabulary.)

📌 rich kids get tutors, editors, therapists, bar prep, bar tabs, and backup plans.
the rest of us get panic attacks and a single highlighter.

📌 first-gen students?
twice as likely to leave with over $120k in debt—
and ten times more likely to actually give a fuck.

and babe?

it shows.

like.
seriously.
really can smell the frailty
because:
some of y’all are just doing whatever.
no vision.
no mission.
just
“idk i guess i’ll be a lawyer” energy.
“my dad’s making me.”
”it’s my family legacy.”

what?

babe.
you’re a whole adult.
if you don’t wanna be here—
don’t.
like, please?

people want to be here.

and look—
if you clawed your way in
like some of us?
this shit hurts.
it’s soul-crushing.
it’s wildly unaffordable.
it’s not built
for the unprivileged.

we are surviving it.
on fumes.
on cold cereal.
on pure delusion
and late-night breakdowns.

but you?
you’re a soft little bitch.
and you know it.
you’ve never been hungry
a day in your life.
you got in with a rec letter
from someone named “chip.”

some of y’all really aspire
to wake up,
open your inbox,
and say:
“let’s ruin someone’s day over an
unauthorized succulent garden.”

like.
baby—
this is law.
this is what you’re doing
with a whole-ass jd.

bitch.
you could be fighting ICE.
you could be suing the state.
you could be throwing flames at genocide,
writing legal diss tracks in the form of amicus briefs.
you could be standing with Palestine
in court filings so savage they ban you from LinkedIn.
you could be on the ground doing
impact litigation that keeps people alive.

but instead?
you’re gatekeeping mailbox paint.
you’re going to war over a
fkn garden gnome babe.

are you dead inside?
because i would be.

what was even the point?

this is who’s running the legal system:
a bunch of soft,
prestige-chasing little bitches
who don’t know why they’re here
but definitely want a corner office
with a view of a parking garage.

congrats, babe.
you really made it.
daddy is proud.

✶✶✶

babe—this shit was a purge. not a resurrection.

that shit has been dead.
and i do not give a fuck.

this book is a graveyard.

no,
i’m not crying anymore.
and if you see tears now?
they’re runoff.

from everything
i poured out
while you were busy
not showing up.

i know you wanna say
yeah—
blah blah blah
she’s just a bitch.
just going through it

yeah bitch,
have been.

“friendship isn’t a tally.”
lol ok

cuz

my side: cvs-receipt length shit.
yours: that one time you grabbed weed and coffee.

so yeah, i cried.
draining my last ounce of loyalty hurts.
but read the slip, babe—

i showed up.

the big shit.
the boring shit.
the breakdowns,
the bullshit,
the bad days you only told me about
when everyone else
had somewhere else to be.

and
did you miss the notice
where—
i told you i had no one.

that,
i showed up
and i knew—
one day,
i’d fall.
and when i did,
i wouldn’t have anyone to catch me.

!!!!!!!

i had one parent.
with cancer.
across the fucking country.

!!!!!!!

so i invested.
in all of you.
hoping that if the floor ever dropped out,
someone
would look me in the eye
and say:
i’ve got you.

but instead,
you looked behind me
like someone else was coming.

and when you saw
there was no one there—
you just shrugged.
and dipped.
back to your full-stack support systems.

siblings.
spouses.
in-laws.
new homies.
family group chats.
holiday invites.
who the fuck ever.

you always had something to go back to.
and i didn’t.
that was the whole point.

and when it was my turn to fall?
you let me hit the ground.
and blamed gravity.

don’t act shocked
that i’m writing it down.

this isn’t drama.
this is the death certificate
and the cause of extinction?
abandonment.

and now?
sure.
summon the fucking troops
to fight me?

let’s go.
i’m here.
bare-knuckled.
alone.
still standing.
with a baby on my back
and smoke still clinging to my skin
from the last fire i walked through—

but still.

you need an army
just to take me down.

because my diary hurts to read.

you need to mock me.
make me feel small.

fine.
stand in formation.
try.

i’m right here.
and i’ve already survived
what you couldn’t handle
with backup.

so yeah—
thanks for the love.
and also?

fuck you.

🖤

when nothing becomes legal something: a flowchart.

an aesthetic PSA—clarity, not chaos; notice, not threat

someone fills out a simple aid form:

coverage ➔ assistance ➔ support

step ① — the quiet click
they complete a questionaire
⬜ zip code
⬜ household size
⬜ income

algorithm buzzes → coverage unlocked

step ② — first ripple
child auto-enrolled 🍼
next screen asks:
⬜ other parent in the home?
⬜ existing support order?
⬜ payment history?

boxes checked → system starts stitching threads

step ③ — document dive
if support exists, the file expands:
⟡ filing courthouse & state
⟡ any appearance / postponement
⟡ linked paperwork:
 ☑ divorce terms
 ☑ custody clauses
 ☑ restraining-order provisions
 ☑ sealed / open investigations

if any item sits within the statute of the current state → the file marches on

step ④ — numbers in motion
(let’s just say the lowest possible amount)
• order entered: late january
• weekly rate: $87
• today: early june

≈ $1,740 accumulating 💸
(no contempt filed; grace still in effect—clock still counting)

step ⑤ — timeline of calm consequences
✔︎ days 1-30 missed → noted
✔︎ days 31-60 delinquent flag → SSN tagged
✔︎ days 61-90 eligible → license / passport / tax holds
✔︎ days 91-180 retro fees → civil contempt filing
✔︎ day 181 + willful non-compliance → possible criminal route (especially with RO terms attached)

each checkbox ticks itself—no extra hands required

gentle reminder
one postponed hearing + a signed restraining order = locked jurisdiction.
orders stay live, obligations stay real.
even the minimum—$87/week—grows when unpaid.

no malice—just transparency.
read the paperwork,
clear the balance,
keep it simple.

because silence accrues interest,
and systems eventually speak louder than we ever will.
and we don’t want that.

(we actually don’t. zero sarcasm)
stop ducking.
it’s going to make it worse.

🖤

how a psuedo-hippie-white-girl ego hijacked my dv healing space

i want everyone to
really see you for who you are.

since my traffic is off the charts.
and you apparently want everyone to read this.
link. link. link.
omg,
she said i was…
a bad friend!
neglectful.
messy.
entitled…
lazy!

aren’t you embarassed?
no?
weird.

(bro, i wouldn’t send this shit to anyone, even if i thought it was bullshit)

so let them really read:

and let me get this straight.

you spent years pretending to be the soft one.
the passive, yet aggressive flower girl.*
the whisper-voiced “peace and love” yogi
with a chill attitude and a knitted bralette.
you burned sage,
wore beads,
and deflected everything not aligned with your chakras.
aka laziness rebranded as spiritual boundaries.

but now?
now you’re rage-texting your whole family
because in one post out of hundreds,
i said you were lazy.
that you were a bad friend.
which—spoiler alert—was true.
and suddenly?
your higher self has entered the chat?
with backup.

you didn’t like the short essay,
so you mobilized a swarm.
sent your entire lineage into my trauma journal
like it was a battlefield.
not even to argue with what i said—
just to punish me for saying it.

you didn’t try to call or text—
be an adult?
you sent nieces, nephews, SILs
truly, who the fuck knows…
i honestly didn’t read.
besides what i scrolled through
by accident.

and the irony?

you performed peace.
but you brought war.
to a space built for survivors.

you sent trolls.
they left comments so violent,
so off-topic,
i had to shut the whole section down.

and here’s what no one’s saying:

this space?
was sacred.
the comments were community.
survivors were building something there.
together.
and you silenced it—
because i described your character.

i didn’t say you were fat.
i didn’t say you were ugly.
i didn’t say you were dumb.
(i didn’t even say your name.)

i actually said the opposite.
smart. capable. but…

i said you were absent.
i said you were resourced and chose nothing.
i said you ghosted me postpartum.

and instead of apologizing?
looking within?

you tried to erase the space.

📿 babe—don’t tell me you’re peaceful
if you’re actively trying to destroy the altar
because it reflects your shadow.

🕯️ you’re not being attacked.
you’re being witnessed.
that’s what’s killing you.

so again—
sucks the introspection hurt your feelings.

but don’t pretend you're a spiritual warrior
when the first time you were held accountable
you sent in a digital firing squad
to silence women processing real shit
(not like who in our fam
is going to steal the most money—
which i listened to,
considerately. lol)
on a healing blog
you never even knew existed
until it implicated you.

again—
namaste, bitch.

you really showed exactly
who you have always been—
a fake.
angry.
empty.
dirty as hell.

a traitor.
someone who refuses to self-reflect,
and sends her clowns to shut it down instead.
hey babe!
grow up!

go write in your journal.
pull a tarot.
clean your own filthy house.

✦

sunflower home academy inc.

bro, seriously—
what the fuck is homeschooling?
and no,
i’m not talking about the curated,
pinterest-board-ass families
with structured co-ops,
kiddie yoga,
field trips,
lesson plans,
and juveniles who are basically in a low-budget
private school with better snacks.
do your thing, i guess.
kinda sounds legit.

i’m talking about the others.
the ones who woke up one day,
looked at their barely passing GPA and said:
“you know who should be in charge of
someone’s entire education?
me.”

like... low key terrifying tbh.
like…all of it?

but…

you don’t have a teaching credential.
you don’t have curriculum experience.
you don’t even have a consistent schedule.
you have anxiety, a messy living room and vibes.

and yet,
somehow,
you think
you’re gonna teach k through 12??
successfully?
math.
science.
grammar.
writing.
history.
critical thinking.
emotional development.
life skills.

you think you're covering all that?
on your own??
with your iPad and some christian guilt??

be fucking for real.
(oh the teachers don’t know shit)
babe—
they have credits.
you have…
delusion and sunflower seeds as an activity.

you flunked bio.
you never understood algebra.
(bro me either)
you haven’t read a book in five years.
but now you’re crafting a syllabus on evolutionary theory and long division?

why?
because you’re scared of school shootings?
guess what—so are we.
but you could get gunned down at the grocery store.
you could get hit at the playground.
fear is not pedagogy.
and avoidance is not an educational model.

“but the public school system is broken.”
sure. agreed.
so maybe... fix that?
fund that?
vote differently?
demand better?

instead,
you pulled your kid out
and handed them a blunt and a youtube link
about how spelling is a colonial construct.

let’s not pretend it’s about enlightenment.
it’s fear.
control.
delusion.
and probably ego.

you don’t trust the system
but you trust yourself—
with zero qualifications,
no training,
and an emotional regulation score of
“depends on the day”—
to produce the next generation of humans?

nah.
you’re not raising revolutionaries.
you’re raising socially stunted,
under-educated kids
with no group conflict resolution skills
and a deep,
unspoken belief that structure equals oppression.

you’re not anti-school.
you’re anti-accountability.

and your kid?
deserves better than your burnout cosplay.

when the enemy enters the cathedral.

bro. hold up.

is there no internal alarm going off?
did you look around at all before you entered?
did you take even one second to register the space you just stepped into?

seriously?
any context clues buzzing?

sweetie—

this is not a gossip blog.
this is not a subtweet.
this is not petty.

this is a cathedral.
built from trauma.
built from wreckage.
built while bleeding.

this is a shrine to survival.
a sacred archive of everything i’ve lived through and didn’t die from.
this is where i come to make sense of it.
to name it.
to alchemize it.

and in case you were unclear—
here’s what we’re talking about:

• domestic violence.

• sexual assault.

• reproductive trauma.

• financial abuse.

• emotional manipulation.

• gaslighting.

• coercion.

• abandonment.

• betrayal.

• parental neglect.

• narcissistic discard.

• surviving postpartum alone.

• getting punched in the head.

• getting choked out while pregnant.

• spit on.

• incest-lite shit.

• ugly shit.

that’s the material.
that’s what this space is for.

and you walked in here—
enticed,
but ultimately uninvited—
with your soft ego flaring
and your little troll squad in tow
because something i felt made you uncomfortable.

yeah, i said some shit.
honestly—meant every word.
this is my fucking trauma journal.
this is what it feels like to be completely fucking abandoned.

you wouldn’t know—
you’ve got people clapping for you when you do the bare minimum.
i don’t.
so i write it down here.

sorry i hurt your feelings.
but again—
zoom out.
really think hard about it.

am i bringing you harm?
violence?
ruin?
emotional devastation?

no.
i’m bringing you:

• years of abandonment
• fake friendship
• transactional “love”
• performative support
• silence when it mattered
• betrayal when i needed care
• and the echo chamber of me begging for help you never gave

so yeah—
maybe it’s a little mean.
but it’s real.
and it’s mine.

if you don’t agree?
cool.
write it in your journal.
maybe i’ll stumble across it someday.
(i won’t, you can link me though, or not)

but don’t confuse my truth
with actual violence.
abandonment.
betrayal.
lost income.
actual damaged assets.
lost investments.
fucking kill switching a lifeline during an escape route.

don’t confuse your guilt with my aggression.
and don’t confuse my grief for a fucking invitation.

you’re not a victim here.
you’re a tourist in a temple of pain you helped build.
and your opinion?
irrelevant.

the comments were peaceful until y’all showed up.

…

(insert: second-grade-reading-level-definitely-homeschooled- sub-plot)

the revoked comment thread in question:

”your husband left you because…”
”go clean a house”

babe what?
ok.
$600.
and he was evicted.
this is the best you could come up with—
you had unlimited time,
internet resources…
wifi.
fucking robots.
what the fuck was this?
at least come with effort.
sweetie—
you didn’t have to rush.
take your time.
think better.

make it…
at least intelligible,
relevant?
above a fourth grade reading level?
whatever.
too much. i know.
moving along.
you tried.

(but lmk if you still require a charity clean—
i know you needed those
because yikes—
petri dish with unlimited cat hair,
am i right?)

honey that’s how you do it take notes.

(back to main plot)

…

despite content being hard to digest
painful.
brutal really.
but to pay for your discomfort—
you brought the poison.
you brought the drama.
you made the space unsafe
because my narrative bruised your fragile ego.

so you tried to burn down the cathedral.
of a survivor.
trauma writing through neglect and isolation.

baby—

you already left me for dead.
you don’t get to police my tone while i rebuild.
on a website i sponsor.

(babe go build your own therapeutic rage temple—
build anything)

so once more,
i’m glad you heard it.

but—

this is not about you.
although
if the shoe fits—wear it.
and walk your ass out the door.

(and back to important things; cramming for property law)

disrespectfully: members only hoe.

comments? closed.
access? revoked.
(bro i have enough emails; i don’t need to auto-delete ragebait too)
so.

✦ welcome to the museum, sweetheart. ✦

the art is behind glass.
you can look; but not touch.

everything here is creative expression.
you’re a spectator babe.

(yo—they really sent the children to fight battles; disgraceful. deleted)
…

feel free to approach me in real life.
to my face.
would love to debate your feelings and thoughts.
hold them. give them space. lol.
jk. (you would never) but thank you for stopping by.

xoxo
i am at peace.

:)

🕯️