Whore.
Rape Girl.
Slut.
Scrawled on a locker
in permanent ink.
Truth overwritten
by simpler stories,
rumors draped around my neck
like chains.
She wanted it.
She let him.
When you're thirteen,
words are everything.
But years pass,
ink fades
the way names do
when you stop answering.
Those words are nothing.
I know what happened.
I know what didn't.
And I was never
what they carved into me.
Sticks and stones, yes.
But those words
no longer get to tell me
who I am.
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