Not The Horoscope / F

I started saying fuck the way people say amen.

It started as a joke, because that’s how I survive. I used to think people who can make jokes out of their misery have some kind of superpower, until my therapist basically said: careful, because the punchline can swing back harder if you keep doing it. Still. If I can laugh, I can breathe. If I can breathe, I can keep going. Simple human math.

And fuck isn’t anger. Not really. It’s more like a prayer I don’t believe in, but still use because it works. A tiny ritual I repeat to cut ties. A way to stop romanticising what kept hurting me.

I’m done waiting for permission. I’m done smiling over a wound just to look easy to be around. Then the petty part slips in, because honesty isn’t always elegant.

Fuck my ex.
Their face just pops up in the most stupid, unexpected moments, replaying every scene I’ve been trying not to relive. Like my brain is committed to torture, like it needs to drag me back into it just to make sure I remember whose fault it was. Because I always blame myself for whatever shit happened.

That’s the real thing underneath all the noise. I wanted a story that made it feel inevitable. Something bigger than me. Something that wasn’t my fault. Something that could excuse me for staying.

So this isn’t a horoscope tee. It’s a mirror. It’s me admitting I don’t need a sign, I need a spine. I don’t need fate, I need boundaries. I don’t need closure, I need distance.

But still.

Fuck horoscope.