Typed This With My Chest: All 38D’s

Typed this with my chest.

Not a whisper.

Not a subtweet.

A direct deposit of

disrespect — sent from

these 38 D’s, and cc’d to

everybody who ever

thought I wouldn’t.

Typed this for the ones who

forgot I don’t owe them

softness.

For the lowercase men who

think healing is a hoax

but still need women to

translate their emotions.

For the women who throw

shade in the name of

“concern” when I’m gone—

but go silent when I enter

the room.

I peeped it.

I filed it.

I typed through it.

Typed this for the friends

who disappeared when the

truth got uncomfortable,

but still follow for content

like I’m a one-woman

TED Talk.

For the ex who thinks

silence is safety—

baby, this is me speaking

fluently in closure he never

earned.

For the mentors who were

only mirrors until I outgrew

the frame.

For the coworkers who

loved my light until it lit up

their shadows.

Typed this with a manicure

and a motive.

You wanted humble.

You wanted quiet.

You wanted compliant

brilliance you could quote

but never credit.

But I’m not here to be

likable.

I’m here to be legendary.

Typed this with a spine

forged in abandonment.

With a clapback built from

every receipt I archived

instead of sending—

until now.

This isn’t call-out culture.

It’s consequence culture.

And every single word was

earned.

So if your ears are burning,

don’t reach for ice.

Reach for growth.

Because I typed this with

my chest.

And the bra didn’t even

flinch.

Names redacted —

for now.