Growing up a girl, I’ve been called a lot of things.
I’ve been called stuck up
because I wouldn’t let you walk all over me
like a bloodstained rug
on a thrift store floor.
I’ve been called a whore.
Because I wouldn’t lift my shirt for you,
spread my legs for you,
do all the things only lovers do
because you are not entitled to my body
no matter what nice things you do for me.
I’ve been called a selfish bitch,
a cold-hearted snitch
by people I wished
would get hit by a bus,
a bus, in which,
I may or may not be driving.
I’ve been called a freak
so much that I think
about getting it tattooed on my chest
like a nametag, but I don’t hate it.
If “freak” is the worst thing I could be,
I’ll take it.
I’ve been called needy,
a long-lost puppy,
manipulating, suffocating,
everything I never meant to be.
I have been called a lot of things
by people who do not know me.
I have worked hard for those things
to no longer define me
but they are ingrained in my mirror
to keep me unhappy.
I’ve never been called unhappy.
So, why am I?
"Nametags" is the fourth poem in my book, Flames Speak. Buy it here.
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