YOU CAN BLAME MY EXES

.
YOU CAN BLAME MY EXES

Shade, Southern Venom,Trauma Truths

The Reason I Am This Way

Do you know that twitch that curls up in your chest when someone leans in soft and polite and says:

“We need to talk.”

That is not a conversation opener — that is a weather report.
A Category 5 emotional storm warning.

And suddenly my phone becomes a radar dish.
I check it eight times in ten minutes like I’m tracking a hurricane named Anxiety, barreling straight for my coastline.

Silence after a text? Guillotine.
Slow. Inevitable. Personal. Sharp enough to slice the air in half.

Let me give you the gospel according to Sweet Potato Truth:
You can blame my exes.

I am not emotionally unavailable.
I am emotionally fortified.
Armed to the teeth with sequins, suspicion, and vodka.

Every twitch, every paranoia, every perfectly-timed retreat — handcrafted by the people who swore they loved me, who swore they were different, who swore I could trust them.


CHAPTER 1: THE SCRIPTURES OF INSECURITY

Let us gather 'round and read from the holy texts carved into my nervous system.

The 3 A.M. Choir.
My insecurities do not whisper. They belt ballads.
They sing:

“They were never yours.”
“Didn’t you learn the lesson the fifth, sixth, seventh time?”


It is Broadway trauma, honey.
Full cast. Full volume. No intermission.

Ghosting: A Professional Sport.
My abandonment issues weren’t born; they were trained by Olympic-level vanishing acts.
People who disappeared faster than Miss Laurens’ sweet potatoes at Sunday dinner — and that woman does not play with her side dishes.

They gave up on me faster than a man with commitment allergies gives up on accountability.

The Prenup of Trust.
Trust used to be a feeling.
Now it’s a legal document, honey.
Every time someone says, “You can trust me,” my soul flips to page 47 of the emotional prenup looking for the betrayal clause.

And honey, there’s always a clause.

The First Book of Me.
Core doctrine:
Nothing stays.
Not people.
Not promises.
Not comfort.
Not even joy — unless it’s self-generated and 80-proof.

The Revelation.
Softness became optional.
Armor became compulsory — and couture.

Leather. Sequins. Attitude. Vodka.
Survival, darling, but make it editorial.


CHAPTER 2: ARMOR & EMOTIONAL PTSD

This isn’t poetry.
This is military strategy in heels.

The Hardened Exterior.
People call it “attitude.”
People call it “cold.”
People call it “too much.”

But baby, when you’ve been used as someone’s emotional rehearsal dinner, you stop giving out free samples.

The Nightly Replay.
My insomnia has its own Netflix deal.
Endless reruns of I’m Fine (But Actually No) — the drag-queen edition, now with more trauma montages.

The Vigilance.
Checking in “too much”? Obsessed? Needy?
Not even close.
It is strategic reconnaissance.
Silence is not peaceful — it’s the quiet click before the trapdoor opens.

The Communion.
People call it numbing.
No. This is holy maintenance.
Vodka in the chalice.
Long showers as confessions.
Sad playlists as liturgy.

Necessary tools for cleaning up the wreckage left by people who swore their love was real.


CHAPTER 3: THE PSYCHOLOGICAL ROLLERCOASTER

Welcome to the carnival, sweet pea.
Every ride’s been safety-inspected by therapists and demons alike.

Suspicion of Kindness.
Someone’s nice to me and my whole brain goes:

“What do you want, sugar? My soul? My keys? My grandmother’s recipes? My best heels?”


Kindness isn’t comfort — it’s a plot twist.

Assumption of Betrayal.
The only thing more predictable than disappointment is eyeliner that won’t smudge under stress.
Everyone’s got a backup plan, and baby, I am theirs — until they find the upgrade.

The Forensic Autopsy.
I don’t talk things through — I perform emotional autopsies.

Every text.
Every pause.
Every sigh.

Dragged under the lamp, dissected, cross-examined, and filed under “potential betrayal.”

The Solo Ministry.
For years, the only one who consistently showed up for me was… me.
Sequined.
Sarcastic.
Bloodied.
Determined.

I became my own pastor, priestess, counselor, mother, and drag mother, all rolled into one.


CHAPTER 4: THE WOUNDS THAT STILL BLEED

Now we drop the glam.
These are the wounds no one sees when I’m dressed to kill.

Trauma.
Not poetic trauma.
Real, body-shaking, appetite-snatching, scream-into-a-pillow trauma.

Fear.
Lives in my ribcage rent-free.
Sleeps beside me.
Wakes before I do.
Breathes louder than I ever could.

Self-Hatred.
I was not born hating myself.
I was taught.
Trained.
Conditioned.

My exes handed me a mirror warped enough to make anyone look grotesque.

Defensiveness.
My “walls” aren’t personality flaws.
They’re architecture.

You build fortresses after surviving invasions disguised as affection.

And yes — blame them more than my rapists.
Because at least my rapists didn’t call it love.
My exes wrapped poison in tenderness and served it with a smile.

That is a different kind of violence.
Quieter.
Deeper.
More permanent.


CHAPTER 5: HELL MADE FLESH

This isn’t metaphorical hell.
This is dragging yourself from emotional rubble wearing heels too tall and hope too thin.

Why?
Because honesty would’ve required their grown-up selves to show up.
Because shrinking me made them feel taller.
Because destruction is easier than growth.

But even as they left me cracked, mistrusting, fabulous, terrified, and glittering —
I got up.

Even when I didn’t want to.


CHAPTER 6: THE RISING

They tried to carve their insecurities into my bones.
They tried to plant their demons in my chest.
They tried to teach me to die small.

But I am still here.

Showing up.
Loving with claws.
Laughing too loudly.
Drinking just enough.
Wearing sequins at inappropriate times.
Rising from the ashes with glitter stuck in every wound.

I am too stubborn to stay broken.
Too queer to stay down.
Too Southern to stay silent.


CHAPTER 7: THE FINAL WORD

They broke me.
They left me for dead.
They trained me to flinch at kindness, question sincerity, and expect betrayal.

But they did not keep me.
They do not get the rights to my story.
They don’t own the ending.
They don’t get to claim the survival they never supported.

So bless their tiny, bitter hearts.
May they season their mediocrity with the same hands that could never hold me.

Because I am here —
Sequined.
Scarred.
Sacred.
Slightly unhinged.

And I am still rising.

In heels.
In fury.
In glory.

You can blame my exes for who I became.
But darling —
you can thank me for surviving them.

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