I Left and Lost

---
[Day One]
Dear Diary,
I fucking left.
Didn’t even look back. Just grabbed my meds, hoodie, charger—
Threw it all in trash bags.
He didn’t wake up.
My chest hurts, but it’s not from him this time.
Not yet.
---
[Day Two]
Dear Diary,
He’s blowing up my phone—calls, texts, voicemails.
“Baby, come home.”
Fuck that.
You called me trash. You broke me, inside and out.
My sister says I’m strong.
I feel like paper held together by fear.
---
[Day Three]
Dear Diary,
I saw his truck outside work.
Didn’t see him, but I knew.
Told my manager I was fine. Lied, of course.
Telling the truth just means more danger.
That’s how this works.
---
[Day Four]
Dear Diary,
Still can’t sleep. Every creak feels like him.
I shower with a knife now.
I flinch at loud videos, deep voices, footsteps.
Even free, I feel hunted.
What the fuck does “safe” even mean?
---
[Day Five]
Dear Diary,
I laughed today.
Some little kid playing superhero.
But then I saw someone in flannel—just like his.
And I froze. Couldn’t breathe.
I just want normal. I want peace.
---
[Day Six]
Dear Diary,
I talked to the cops.
Told them everything—bruises, threats, broken shit.
They nodded. Said unless he comes back, nothing they can do.
So I wait. For him to snap.
This is what “protection” looks like?
---
[Day Seven]
Dear Diary,
He rang the doorbell.
I peeked.
That same smirk, like he already won.
I texted my sister: “If anything happens, it’s him.”
I locked every bolt.
But bolts don’t stop fear. Or fists.
If I don’t make it—know I fucking tried.
I deserved better.
---
[Outro – Spoken softly]
They’ll say I should’ve left sooner.
But I did. And still…
If you’re reading this—believe her.
Don’t wait for the funeral to say she was strong.

Ukulele, raw vocals, diary style verses, soft piano, slow tempo, and heavy emotional tension, female