eulogy 3
You hover over my page like ghosts — scrolling, judging, pretending it’s concern. You never ask, How are you? You just watch, hoping to catch me bleeding.
You built a shrine of blame and named me the sin. But tell me — where were you when the house caught fire? When he fell apart in quiet corners, when loved turned to obligation, when forgiveness came too late to the matter?
You point your fingers like pitchforks, but your hands aren’t clean. You let me in once, smiling through the teeth that already knew the story. You told yourselves that I was different, until you needed someone to burn.
You think I don’t feel the weight? I carry it daily — in my shoulders, in my sleepless jaw, in the hollows beneath my eyes. Grief turned my body into a battlefield. I didn’t just lose him. I lost peace. I lost safety. I lost every version of myself that believed love could be enough.
And still, you scroll. You whisper. You measure my silence in guilt, as if my pain were entertainment.
My daughter — she’s the only pure thing left in all this noise. And no, you will not have her. Not your whispers, not your blame, not your hollow kind of love. She will not learn shame from your mouths.
You say you understand, but you don’t. You never will. You should feel lucky. Lucky not to know what it’s like to drive yourself to the edge and still chose to live.
So, watch, if watching helps you sleep. You don’t get to babysit from a screen. But remember this — I’m still standing. And I’ll keep standing, even if my knees shake, even if my heart splits open again.
You took my peace, but not my power. You took my name, but not my voice. And one day, when the noise quiets, you’ll hear the truth echoing through what’s left of me — not blame, not hate, just the sound of a woman who refused to die for your comfort.
Chloe