The lie you all planned

You didn’t just lie.

You planned it.

Sat there with the others,

probably grinning,

talking about how to make me look guilty,

how to finally

get me out of the house

without having to say it to my face.

You could’ve been real.

You could’ve said,

"Diana, we don’t want you here."

But no—

you had to play dirty.

You had to turn fake tears into accusations,

turn a damn debit card

into a setup.

You said I stole it.

Ran up charges.

Committed fraud.

You painted me

like a criminal

when I’ve never even stood before a judge.

Never once.

And you know what hurts more?

They all nodded along.

Dad. Stepmom.

Silent smiles. Fake shock.

But I saw it.

I saw the way they looked at me—

not with confusion,

but with relief.

Like your lie gave them

permission to finally push me out.

And you—

you led the charge.

You called me a bitch

for living there rent-free,

when in reality,

I would’ve paid rent if anyone had asked.

But they didn’t.

Because money wasn’t the problem.

I was.

You said I need help

like I’m broken.

Like I’m slow.

But I see it now—

that was just part of the plan.

Break me down,

make me small,

make it easier to justify

what you all did.

You all played me

like I was too dumb to see it.

But I see it now.

I see you

for who you are.

And I swear,

I hope one day you get hit

with something you didn’t do.

Something heavy.

And I hope no one listens to you.

Not one person.

I hope you scream the truth

while the room turns their back.

I hope you feel

exactly how I felt—

abandoned, humiliated,

betrayed by the people

who should’ve stood by you.

I won’t ever forget it.

The lie.

The setup.

The silence.

The smirks.

And you,

leading it all

like the fake-ass queen

of some little kingdom built on bullshit.

Your karma’s coming.

And I hope it hits

exactly where it hurts.