Oh, darling—
you wore the mask so well,
Oscar-worthy,
subtle as a bullhorn wrapped in silk.
You smiled like a saint,
talked like a sage,
but your spirit leaked
through the cracks
in your curated charm.
And I?
I sipped my tea
with the patience of ten thousand grandmothers
watching your little circus unfold.
You thought I didn’t see it.
Didn’t catch the side-eye shade,
the bargain-bin intentions
dressed in dollar-store loyalty.
Adorable.
See, I don’t always call it out—
discernment doesn’t need a parade.
Sometimes the best clapback
is the sound of my absence
echoing louder than your excuses.
You mistook grace for gullibility,
compassion for confusion,
me listening for me buying it.
Oh no, sweetheart.
I heard you.
I saw it.
I just waited.
Because karma wears heels and doesn’t rush.
And when your true colors finally strutted in—
late, loud, and a shade of “child, please”—
I bowed to the lesson,
clutched my pearls,
and floated off like incense in temple air.
Detachment, darling,
isn’t cold—it’s couture.
Tailored in peace,
stitched in boundaries,
and topped with a fierce little crown
of “not today.”
So go ahead,
curate your narrative.
Post your parables.
Tell the world I was “too sensitive.”
While I rest.
Glowing.
Unbothered.
Booked and bathed in lavender oil.
Because next time?
Oh love—
there won’t be a next time.
I’m allergic to reruns.
Now run along.
I’ve got healing to do,
and a date with my joy
that shows up on time
and doesn’t lie—
👑✨
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Healing Majestically 