let the Broken bitch go

Let the broken bitch go.
She did her job.
She bent. She swallowed. She stayed when leaving would’ve cost too much.
She made herself smaller so others could feel taller.
She carried shame that was never hers and called it loyalty.
She kept you alive.
That was the assignment.
She completed it.
But she doesn’t run the house anymore.
You don’t need her flinching.
You don’t need her hoping.
You don’t need her translating disrespect into maybe I’m asking too much.
Thank her if you want.
Or don’t.
Either way, release her.
Because what’s here now isn’t broken.
It’s calibrated.
Alert.
Unimpressed.
This version doesn’t beg.
Doesn’t wait.
Doesn’t explain herself to be digestible.
She sees the pattern.
Names it.
Steps out of it.
Let the broken bitch rest.
She’s exhausted.
What’s standing now is the woman who survived her—
and finally stopped mistaking endurance for identity.
She’s not going anywhere.