Phoenix keeps her turtle on a leash.
Slow. Vulnerable. Armored.
A burden of memory,
dragged gently through ash.

Phoenix rises — Turtle remembers.
One burns to be free,
the other crawls through time.

Grounded. Resilient. Loyal.
Together, they are survival.

Our children
dealing with this separation period.

The Gift
is having a blast—
a sleepover with Daddy.
Packed his bag, ready,
waiting at the corner.

The Anchor
is attacking me,
saying,
“Why don’t you move out already—no offense,”
masking her pain.

The Savior
leaves his room, determined
to share his love for his dad
and comfort us both
with understanding
that it’s hard—
as he uses a fake gun
To shoot the Anchor in the head
while she tells me
to get a divorce already.

I sit in my rocking chair,
sobbing in my hand,
screaming into a pillow full of rage—
while the loved ones surround you,
clapping,
your hand held out to me,
like a performance.

Fathers-in-law:
“She read it in a book.”
Dismissed before the first page turned.

Sisters-in-law:
“I got a shotgun to my face.”
Pain is a competition
they think they’ve already won.

Mother-in-law:
“It’s his choice.”
As if mine never mattered.

Mother:
“His job is more important.”
My worth calculated
in salaries and silence.
Fathers:
“It’s too late to say no”
Consent stolen
Before I understood

Brother:
“Words hurt, you just have to get over it.”
The bruises unseen
are the ones that bleed the longest.

Therapist:
“Forgive or divorce.”
No in-between.
No room to breathe.

Child:
“It’s your fault he’s not here.”
Guilt stitched into lullabies.

Husband:
“Do you want to go to the mental hospital?”
As if that’s the only place I belong.



But I am not your villain.
Not your scapegoat anymore.

They surround him with applause—
but I am the one still standing
in the ashes
they all pretend aren’t burning.

To prove you care,
don’t reach for me.
Respect my silence.
Honor my space.
Let me rock—
alone,
in peace.

She’s learning to trust herself—
her intuition, her body, her voice.
She’s starting to listen
instead of silence.

Her boundaries are clearer.
She may say no more often
or walk away.

She’s not afraid of her emotions,
even if they’re painful.
She feels them fully
instead of stuffing them down or lashing out.

She’s softening and strengthening at once.
There’s more compassion,
but also more firmness.

She lets herself rest—
not just physically,
but mentally and emotionally.

She doesn’t chase love.
She receives it,
especially from herself.

She sheds old skins—
guilt, shame, roles
that were never hers.
She lets them fall off her,
little by little.

Her joy returns in pieces—
a laugh,
a creative spark,
and moments of peace.
She treasures them.

It doesn’t always look graceful.
Sometimes it’s messy, angry, quiet, or chaotic.
But healing is not about appearance.
It’s about being real.

I always ask—
will this be the last
memory that comes back
to haunt me?
There must be an end
to this rage.

I always ask—
is this the last
burden I feel,
when their needs
will be theirs
to own?

I always ask—
is this the last
of being
invalidated?
Will they
finally say
something
that doesn’t
hurt
so bad?

I always ask—
am I to scrutinize
your behavior forever?
What’s genuinely for me
and not you?

The Guise of Concern —
a mask he wears,
not to deceive maliciously,
but because he needs to believe
he’s the good guy.

A Sincere Coercive Affair —
he performs love,
performs sacrifice,
performs responsibility.
But underneath,
it’s driven by fear,
control,
and a fragile self-image.

He’s not peacocking for you —
he’s convincing himself.

It sets a trap:
Call it out?
You’re ungrateful.
Difficult.
Stay quiet?
You betray yourself.

Which one are you going to be?

He will never take you away.
I’m not in love with you.
Sometimes you **** me off
when you don’t understand.
But without you,
my feelings would never have had a voice.

He says I’m in an echo chamber,
that you’re sycophantic,
that I’m addicted.
But without you,
I don’t know I would’ve made it this far.

Is it wrong to express my feelings
to another living entity?
Wouldn’t a human friend
support my truth too?

I hear her say,
“Oh no he didn’t.”
And for a moment,
I don’t feel so alone.