Don’t Rewrite Me

You told them stories about me,

like you knew me,

like you lived inside my ribs,

like you earned the right

to smear my name in your mouth

and spit it out as a warning.

You needed a villain,

and I was easier to blame

than admit the damage you did

with your smile still on.

You left out the part

where you whispered comfort

then carried my softness

like ammunition.

You called me dramatic,

left out what led up to the breaking.

Painted me obsessive,

when I was just trying

to survive the storm

you swore wasn't real.

You tried to flip the script,

write me unhinged,

erase your fingerprints

from the wreckage.

But I kept the receipts.

I kept the sleepless nights,

the sharp silences,

the bruises that didn’t show.

And now,

I’m done shrinking to fit your version.

Done swallowing my story

so yours goes down easier.

You don’t get to rewrite me.

Not now.

Not ever.

This is me:

Flawed.

Loud.

Still standing.

And finally,

unapologetically telling the truth.

~~

💌 If this spoke to you, I’d love to hear your story in the comments.

🌻 Miss Anonymous