she called me a ****,
as if the word could sink into my skin
and define the person i am.

but i am not that
(couldn’t be farther than that).
i long for what she can’t see—
a love that is honest,
a connection without walls,
a trust that doesn’t crumble
when the world’s gaze turns sharp.

her words aren’t true,
but they still found their mark,
like arrows tipped with shadows.
it hurts,
not because i believe her,
but because she believed
that tearing me down
was easier than understanding me.

i am not what she said.
i am someone
who loves deeply,
who craves meaning in a world
that so often refuses to give it.
she doesn’t know me,
but i know myself.
snd that has to be enough.

and yet, what hurts the most
is that she knows me.