Don’t ******* call me
like you didn’t grind me down
to bone and breathless compliance.

Don’t ask how I’m healing
when you handed me the wounds.

You used my body
like it was a rental—
no oil change, no thank-you.
Just mileage and abandonment.

You praised my resilience
while watching me split.
You called me devoted
because I crawled back bleeding.

I was your hospice—
not your lover.
Your proof of concept,
not your partner.
And now you wear compassion
like a new coat
over the same rot.

I see what you’re doing.

You want my silence
to sanitize your story.
You want to use my dignity
as a character reference.

You want me to pretend
you didn’t **** me raw,
leave me rawer,
and call it love.

You want me to pick up
just so you can hang up
with a cleaner conscience.

But I’ve learned
that ghosts don’t need phones.
And abusers don’t get closure.

So here it is:
the only call you’ll get—
straight from the wreckage
you refused to name:

You don’t get to rewrite me.
You don’t get to remember me gently.
You don’t get to touch this ruin
with clean hands.