Dumped By Trump

I didn’t get dumped because I yelled, or berated him, or tried to change his mind.

I got dumped because I did the most dangerous thing you can do to men like that.

I walked into his life whole.

Not broken. Not looking to be saved. Not desperate for a place to land.

And that? That was the problem.

Because men like him? They love me at first. They always do.

Big boobs. Nice lips. A voice like honey. And homeless enough that they think I’ll be grateful. They think they’re about to rescue me.

They don’t expect me to outgrow them.

I was supposed to be in Michigan. That was the plan. A work-trade deal in a big house where I could wait out the winter. A fair deal. A structured deal.

And then, I met him.

January 11th or 12th—doesn’t matter. What matters is the way it happened.

He picked me up in his truck. First date. Tacos. Easy. I liked him. He was young. Sixteen years younger. But I knew what this was.

I always know.

I don’t enter relationships expecting them to last forever. I don’t move through life discarding people, but I also don’t cling to them. Things end. That’s not the problem. The problem is when something could be good, should be good, and someone refuses to let it.

After tacos, we made out in his truck. It was good. And I saw it then—that flicker of hesitation in his eyes. Like he wanted to take me home but wasn’t sure.

The dog. Reina.

She had to like me. That was the rule.

And of course, Reina loved me. Of course, I passed the Reina test.

And later? I trained her better than he ever could.

Three days later, I was supposed to leave for Michigan. Neither of us wanted it to end.

So I suggested something.

I was already about to do work-trade somewhere. Why not here? One month. Trial period. If it didn’t work, I’d go.

It wasn’t some grand romantic gesture. It wasn’t me needing a man, or him needing me. It was practical.

I asked, Are you sure?

And he said yes.

Looking back? It wasn’t an enthusiastic yes. It was a Sure, sure.

I should’ve clocked that.

At first? It was good.

He liked coming home to a house that didn’t look abandoned.

He liked that I cooked three meals a day. The first time he’d eaten regularly since his mother died.

He liked that I cleaned. That I made his house feel like someone lived there.

And then?

He watched me work.

He watched me, in a single day, rebuild my entire website.

He watched me relaunch The Stoop.

He watched me turn an idea into action while he sat there with a business that didn’t even have a logo.

He watched me do something with nothing while he sat with something and did nothing.

That’s what i believe broke him.

Because I wasn’t just settling into his life. I was building my own.

He thought I was lucky to be there. But he was the lucky one.

He saw me create momentum.

And men like him? They don’t like that.

They like when we are just passing through. They like when we play small. They like when we exist in a way that makes them feel big.

Because that’s America too, isn’t it? America loves when we survive, but hates when we thrive. America loves us for our labor, our culture, our rhythm, our resilience. But the moment we demand more than scraps, the moment we claim what we are owed, suddenly we are “too much.”

America wants us in the house—but only as long as we are making it comfortable.

The second we make it our own? The second we show we don’t need their scraps? That’s when the shift happens. That’s when they resent us.

It started small. Little comments. Little shifts. A pulling away.

And then, one day, he said it.

A little knife in my back is better than a big knife.

Trump was the small knife. Kamala was the big knife.

And in that moment, I heard everything I needed to hear.

Because what he was really saying was:

I trust a white man with a knife. But a Black woman holding a knife? That is a bigger knife.

And when I asked why? His answer was short-sighted. Selfish.

My money was better under Trump.

There was less crime.

And it hit me.

America doesn’t care about what it doesn’t have to see.

That’s the whole system. That’s the whole game. Look away. Ignore it. Vote for what makes you comfortable. Blame the people suffering for their suffering.

That night, he put his arm around me in bed.

And for the first time, I did not lean back.

I was done.

Two days later, the fight finally happened.

The full Fox News-TikTok-fueled argument where he had nothing and I had everything.

His knee was shaking. His hands were gripping his knee. He kept saying, Respectfully, respectfully, but what he meant was I just don’t care.

That night, I wrote about it. And when I read it to him, he said:

I think you were too hard on me.

And then?

He broke up with me.

Like he was saving himself.

Like he was doing me a favor.

The next morning, suddenly, he didn’t need a ride to work.

And suddenly, there was no running water in the house.

And suddenly, he had left me there without keys.

It was deliberate. Or it wasn’t. But either way, it sent a message.

He feared what he owed me more than he believed in my ability to forgive him.

He took the keys—not because he didn’t trust me, but because he knew if he were me, he wouldn’t trust himself.

That’s what this is.

Their guilt, their shame, their fear of what they’ve taken will always outweigh their belief in what we might still give. Even when we have never moved with violence. Even when we have never taken revenge.

He knew I wasn’t the threat. He was.

So I packed my things.

I put everything back exactly how it was before I touched it.

The way I had rearranged everything to make it better? I undid it.

No flow. No sense. No order—just the chaos he was comfortable in.

The way it was before me.

And what did he text me about?

His weed.

The weed that I bought to help him save money.

And then, why did you move the furniture back?

Like I had somehow destroyed the place. Like I hadn’t left it exactly how it was before I got there.

Because that’s what they do.

They make themselves the victim.

But here’s the truth:

I was not harmed.

That’s what America wants, right? To harm us when we no longer serve?

To discard us when we refuse to be used?

But it didn’t work. I didn’t lose anything in this.

I left with my dignity. My peace. My momentum.

And he?

He was left with nothing but the memory of what it felt like to have me there.

Because I already knew how this would end.

Because I was already prepared to let this die.

Because I am the ghost haunting him now.

And that?

That is his loss to carry.