Don’t call me unfeeling. Don’t.

Call me bitch, call me whore, call me slut - I can deal with that. I can take those words, I can take bitch and wear it like armor. I can take bitch and cloak myself in it, throw it round my shoulders and thread it through my hair. Bitch is music to my ears, a reason for me to bare my teeth, a symphony that sharpens my tongue and will cut you down.

Whore is red lips and black leather boots and every reason you can’t have me. Whore is a reflection upon yourself; it’s your lust and your shortcomings and the poison that builds up inside you when you realise that I’m not going to lay down and let you skewer me. It’s the bullshit that you tell yourself, the acid you feel in the base of your throat that spews out in the form of this word because I am not yours.

Slut is nothing. Slut is your last resort, the stuttering shreds of insults you - and every one like you - fall back on because you think it will hurt. You think I’ll cower at a four letter word that’s stolen from slave drivers, from pedophiles, the scum of the fucking earth. You think that it can tear me down? You think that the gross double standard can strip the steel from my back and make me close my lips and be silent?

Bitch, whore, slut. It makes no difference. They’re words you spit in my face, hot and hateful, when I’m too big for you. When I tower above your sniveling form, these are the pathetic insults that you vomit from your slimy little lips in the hope that they will chip away at my walls.

I will walk away. I will laugh, and it will be a thousand times sharper than anything you could muster. I’ll leave you, embittered by your own tongue, cowering in the shadows. I’ll leave you to your muttered fury, the kind that cannot even hope to challenge mine - I’ll leave you to your supposed niceties. I’ll smirk at the dichotomy, the bitch and nice guy in the same space, the same breath.

But don’t call me unfeeling. Don’t mistake my strength for callousness. I feel more than you could imagine. I am black fury before a storm, I am pink sunset, I am the glory of burnt orange sunrise meeting unsullied blue - I feel, and it exists under my skin. It’s fire and ice, mixing and roiling and spitting and erupting in steam that blows the hair back from your face. I am passionate, I am human.

Don’t reduce me to paper and ink. Don’t tell me I’m there for you to lust after. I am anger, and sadness, and love, and happiness. I am every colour of the rainbow splashed across canvas, across skin, and I will not be simplified by the likes of you.

― w.b.s writing (via whatbethsays)