Your mouth untouched.
Hers: filthy.
You’re sixteen.
Shes almost thirty
And they grin-
like it’s a joke
you’re supposed to laugh at,
like you won something,
like nothing was taken.
If the mirror flipped,
they’d scream,
tear the walls down,
call it what it is.
But here-
they swallow the word,
force it back into your throat
until silence
sounds like consent.
Your voice claws up,
bleeds against your teeth-
but no one’s listening.
They already decided what you are:
lucky.
Your mouth is clean.
So they keep it that way-
wash it out, rewrite it,
leave you with nothing
but the echo of a word
you were never allowed to learn.