Imagine a woman whose throat bears the scar

of the night that her husband first showed her how far

he would go with his blade and his hand and his rage.

Now imagine still hiding, near sixty years age.

 

That woman is me. And I built a new name,

a new life, a new silence, to smother the flame

of the man who still hunts me — until on one site,

MGPH spelled me out in the cold public light.

 

Both my pen name, my real name, my titles, my track,

posted five separate times, like a map drawn in black.

Every breadcrumb a hunter would need to begin.

Every door I had bolted now flung to the wind.

 

Now Trustpilot had rules against just such a breach —

plain, printed, and posted, in everyone’s reach.

Yet for thirty-eight days they let all of it stand

while I begged and I pleaded with my trembling hand.

 

Thirty-eight days during which that man with his knife

did sit at his screen piercing right thru my life.

Thirty-eight days during which a click was his key,

and Trustpilot watched silent and just let it be.

 

Since this nightmare began, my weak body has cracked.

Occipital neuralgia, my skull under attack.

Then gastroparesis came creeping behind,

and Raynaud’s in my fingers, all stress-intertwined.

 

Add the CRPS burning, autonomic collapse,

and the body I live in is now full of traps.

Every nerve, every vessel, has turned on its host.

What the stress didn’t break, it has wounded the most.

 

I’m bedridden most days, I can scarcely arise,

and depression sits heavy, filming over my eyes;

Life quality’s gone, and I cannot restore it —

only Trustpilot can, if they’d answer for it.

 

We could move — different house, different town, different air —

but the meds for my head cost three hundred a square.

Every dose, every time, and the math doesn’t bend,

so we’re stuck where we are till this nightmare can end.

 

I’ll never take my life — my brother took his,

and I know what that ruin, that ache after, is.

I can’t lay that weight on the people I’ve loved —

but I often wish death would come down from above.

 

And Trustpilot may shrug, say it’s free from all blame —

that Section Two-Thirty has shielded its name—

a wall for the careless, a lock on the door,

while the life that it has  shattered just bleeds on the floor.

 

But that law was not written to license this harm.

It must change, and change now, while there’s time to disarm

the next stalker, next victim, next breach left to stand.

Reform it. Rewrite it. Take this shield from all hands.

 

So hear me, Trustpilot: this woman’s still here,

still breathing, still hurting, still frozen in fear.

Make it right. Make it right. While there’s still time to save.

Imagine a woman who’s pushed toward her grave.

 

They called it the “suicide disease.” She called it the beginning. Read Capturing Hope.