I left them on read. Then on red. Then on merch.
You ever notice how your triggers are like old internet pop-ups?
Unwanted. Uninvited.
And always offering “healing” in exchange for your sanity?
Mine slid into my DMs like,
“Hey you’ve been on my heart.”
Ma’am, you were on my nervous system.
And it flatlined.
They came back with fake humility,
voicemails that sounded like trapdoors,
and emojis that reeked of manipulation.
One even said, “Let’s catch up over coffee.”
Sure—right after I catch up on unpacking your bullshit.
Some triggers sent Bible verses.
Some sent nostalgia.
One sent a meme of a duck hugging a porcupine with the caption:
“Sometimes love is prickly.”
I sent back a gif of a goat yeeting a raccoon off a porch.
Because here’s what they don’t realize:
That version of me—the one who picked up every call,
answered every crisis,
explained myself to people who weren’t listening?
She’s retired.
She’s sipping chamomile in a hoodie that says “Do Not Reboot Old Wounds.”
Triggers tried to rebrand.
I restructured.
My entire inbox is now a bounce house with bouncers.
I don’t just block.
I block with intention.
I light sage, play Beyoncé, and giggle while pressing “decline.”
This isn’t pettiness.
It’s post-traumatic progress.
And it comes with a red stoplight,
a goat advisory warning,
and a personal assistant named Gigi who auto-replies:
“No. Still no. Try reincarnation.”
So yeah.
They tried to reconnect.
And I kindly reminded them:
I’ve upgraded my system.
Your access has expired.
And the door?
Bleats on the way out.
My Triggers Tried to Reconnect
They texted “Hey,” I texted “Nope.”
They sent a meme. I sent them hope—
A boundary sharp, a block so bright,
Even my shadow slept at night.
They missed the chaos, missed the flair,
But I evolved beyond despair.
I screen the ghosts, I vet the past—
And laugh while pressing block real fast.
—The Funny Phoenix, guarding peace with punchlines
