I’ve seen girls trade their dreams for dinner dates,
watched laughter turn into currency
in the hands of men with heavy wallets
and empty hearts.
I’ve stood in the smoke of things I never wanted to inhale,
tasted rebellion on my tongue,
but never swallowed the whole lie.

We went out five deep,
heels high, lashes higher —
but by the end of the night,
I was riding home with only one or two.
The others left with strangers,
chasing thrill or survival —
I never judged them.
But I couldn’t follow.

I had friends who floated through school
on clouds of **** and promises,
rolled blunts like prayers,
burned out before morning.
I tried to take a puff once —
not to fit in, just to feel
what they felt so free doing.
But it wasn’t my flavor.
Never was.

They called me innocent.
Not because I didn’t know,
but because I knew —
and still chose not to bend.
Because I could touch fire
and walk away without letting it stain me.

I am not naïve.
I have stood at the edge of the world
and watched it spin mad.
But I chose stillness.
Chose softness.
Chose me.

If that makes me too innocent
for how the world works,
so be it.
I’d rather be whole than hardened.
Rather be soft than sorry.
Rather be me
than anything else.