โข You donโt get to name me โข
(Photos โ> Pinterest)
I didnโt do what they said I did.
But I guess that never mattered.
Once someone decides youโre the villain,
facts donโt make a dent.
Silence becomes confession,
and survival starts to look suspicious.
They didnโt ask.
They never do.
Itโs easier to pass judgment
than to hold space for a story that hurts.
I was grieving.
I was trying.
I was drowning in a world that never let me breathe โ
and somehow, Iโm still the one
they spit on when they talk about โcrazy.โ
They donโt know me.
But theyโve built an entire mythology out of my name.
Iโve been called things that donโt fit my skin.
Iโve worn the guilt of other peopleโs lies
like it belonged to me.
Iโve apologized for my pain
just to keep the peace in rooms that were never safe.
But Iโm done.
You donโt get to name me.
Not when you only showed up to point fingers,
not when you didnโt care enough to ask why I broke,
only that I did.
Iโm not a monster.
Iโm not unstable.
Iโm not what the whispers say.
I am loyalty, stretched to its limit.
I am the one who kept showing up,
even when it meant bleeding in silence.
I am still here โ
still rising โ
still mine.
And I will not shrink
just to fit the version of me youโre more comfortable hating.
You donโt get to name me.
I already have a name.
And sheโs learning how to speak without shaking.
