One girl.
Three brothers.
Built like shields,
raised to guard—
and somehow trained
to wound.
I went to his house today
with a case of beer
and small bottles of skincare—
something gentle for me,
something kind for his girlfriend—
peace offerings cradled in my arms.
He answered with threats,
with police in his mouth,
with spit and volume and fear disguised as care.
Everyone worries about you, he screamed.
Pray to God.
As if belief could cauterize rot.
As if I hadn’t already tried
everything that ever promised salvation.
They called my parents
like I was a stray to be collected.
They complained about the inconvenience—
how heavy it is to rescue someone
they never save.
They keep favors like knives,
hanging over my head,
waiting for the right moment
to remind me I owe them
for surviving.
I tried to leave before the headlights came.
Six beers dragging at my side,
my body already unsteady,
my hope long gone.
The curb caught me without warning.
I went down hard.
Skin split.
Blood spilled.
I bled like proof
that I exist.
A homeless man rode past on a bike.
Didn’t stop.
Didn’t ask.
Didn’t see me.
I understood then—
this is what I’ve always been:
something easy to step around.
I am alone in a way
that has nothing to do with rooms or people.
It is a permanent vacancy
inside my chest.
The men in my past were not accidents.
They were rehearsals.
Cruelty learned early
repeats itself with better disguises.
My brothers are worse because they know my name.
My father is worse because he taught them how.
And still—
somehow—
they are loved.
They move through the world unbroken,
hands clean, stories intact,
while I gather myself off pavement
and wonder what kind of girl
must be so easy to abandon.
Feb 5
Feb 5, 2026 at 1:22 AM UTC