You Say I’m a Bitch

You say I’m a bitch

like it’s supposed to land heavy,

like it should fold me in half

or make me smaller

for your comfort.

Like I haven’t heard it before—

from people who needed me quiet,

easier,

less likely to say

no.

You say it

when I don’t bend,

when I don’t soften my truth

to fit your version of me.

When I choose myself

without asking

if it makes you uncomfortable.

And maybe that’s the problem.

I stopped apologizing

for having edges.

Stopped explaining

why I deserve space

in a room I already stand in.

You call it attitude.

I call it awareness.

You call it cold.

I call it boundaries

I learned the hard way.

Because the same voice

that calls me a bitch

would’ve called me weak

if I stayed quiet,

grateful

for less than I deserved.

So say it again—

if that’s the only language

you know.

But understand this:

I didn’t become this way

to hurt you.

I became this way

so I wouldn’t keep

hurting myself.