you don’t get to write me anymore
you turned my body into a metaphor,
a stage for your fantasies,
a canvas you could stain with words
i never consented to.
you called it poetry,
i call it violation.
i pretended not to flinch
when you carved desire into my skin
with lines meant for strangers,
not for the girl who never asked
to be undressed in metaphors.
i thought i had to accept it,
thought being a “muse”
meant swallowing discomfort
and wearing it like admiration.
but i wasn’t your muse,
i was your mask.
you hid behind my softness
to feel powerful.
and still,
i survived you.
now,
i write myself back into my body.
i reclaim every inch
you tried to turn into spectacle.
this pen is mine.
this voice is mine.
this story is mine.
you don’t get to write me anymore.
Whew… this one grabbed me by the throat. The way you name the silence we’re taught to perform, the way you call out the kind of “muse” that’s really just a mask someone forces on you that’s truth most people never say out loud.
What I love most here is the reclamation. The way the poem turns from survival to authorship, from being written on to writing yourself back into your own skin. That shift is powerful. That’s healing in motion.
Your voice in this piece is sharp, clean, and unapologetic. It’s the kind of honesty that doesn’t just break a cycle it unmakes it. Thank you for sharing this.✨
Strong resilient and beautiful