words are thrown
the way a machine spews bullets
and stains passionate red,
unlike your parents forgotten love,
screaming only defeat, and that
you were for naught

punches are swung,
like bombs that arent made of fire,
leaving something much more permanent
than ash and tears,  
an impression of what they thought of you

ice cream is dropped,
at a party and on a dress,
as your face flushes with embarrassment,
and while people laugh,
finally understanding why
*you are not the favorite child

You are not a walking coffin,
A sinner, murderer,
Or mother to a dead baby;

You are a woman who decided not to have a child,
The woman who took control of her pregnancy and made the right choice for herself,
A woman who was not afraid to deny a huge commitment,
And you are a woman who's not wrong in the choice you made.

whether or not
you decide to rid yourself
of tiny unwanted cells,
that are too early to hear your voice,
and too early to have a beating heart,
or rid yourself
of a future you may want,
it is your choice,
not your choice that
others get to make for you.

sometimes
i wish that you could see into my mind,
and say all the things that i wish
people would say to me.

and sometimes,
i wish you would figure them out
on your own.

don't
say my name
to get my attention,
thats like acting like i
can't hear without it.

don't
use my name
as an insult, for i hate
it already, and find it
used up in that line of resource.

don't
worship my name
the way you want me to worship
your words, it may be my own,
and it may be who you see me as,
but i can still be just fine
without it.

if i marred your body
with words and rusty knives,
and i peeled your skin with
the burn of every tear you
ever caused me;
would you label the remnants
as scars from our love,
or tattoos you regret?