No one ever told me the truth, so I will tell it to you now.

You were not meant to suffer. But they made you think you were.

The adults in your life were supposed to shield you, but instead, they sharpened their teeth on your softness and called it discipline. They carved their shame into your bones, hollowed you out, and then cursed you for the emptiness.

They called you names before you even knew what they meant. Whore. Liar. Demon worshipper. A thing to be feared, to be mocked, to be controlled. They made you believe that your body was too much—too soft, too heavy, too visible—and then grabbed at your flesh as if they were sculptors, pressing, pulling, reshaping you into something smaller. Something that would not haunt them when they closed their eyes at night.

They will push you into the arms of the men they warned you about. And when your stomach twists in protest, they will call it love. When you flinch, they will call you dramatic. When you run, they will scream at you for not running faster. When he rips you apart, they will look the other way and call it your fault.

And my love, you will act up. You will spit and scream and cry so loudly they will call you possessed. Good.

They will tell you that you are mature for your age—so bite them when they do. Tear flesh from bone. Make them regret every time they have mistaken your body for something consumable.

They will push you aside, watch you collapse under the weight of yourself, and they will laugh at your death. A spectacle. A joke. One less mouth to feed. One less burden in the shape of a girl.

But let me tell you something no one ever told us:

You didn’t deserve it.
None of it.

You were a child.

And some days, it still feels like you never grew up, doesn’t it? Some days, you still feel like you’re trapped in that rotting body, clawing at the walls of your own skin, waiting for someone to come save you. But no one is coming.

So we will save ourselves.

One day, we will feel safe enough to grieve. We will bury the versions of ourselves they have killed, set fire to the bones they have broken, and let the flames touch every place their hands have been.

One day, we will reclaim this body, and we will lose our minds.
One day, we will take revenge—not with knives or fire, but by existing. Loudly. Obnoxiously. Unapologetically.

They never wanted you to take up space.
So take up all of it.

You deserve to be angry.
You deserve to be loud.
You deserve to exist in a way that makes them uncomfortable.

You survived despite them.
Now haunt them with the fact that you are still here.

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