I am not a slut
I know exactly what you’re thinking.
You see a number.
You do the math.
You divide. You compare.
You judge.
You think I’m flitting around, collecting.
You think I chain things together to fill a void, for the pleasure of a thrill.
You think it’s a game, that I have no heart, no conscience, no memory.
But this figure says nothing.
It doesn’t tell you the hopes I put into each encounter.
It doesn’t say the looks that promised and the silences that followed.
It doesn’t mention the ‘I want to get to know you’ that just hid a well-laid booty call.
It doesn’t mention the myths, the ambiguous guys, the aborted relationships.
It doesn’t say how many times I thought ‘maybe this time…’.
Nor does it say that I remained whole, even when I was broken.
That I never lied about my intentions.
That I never used.
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That I never played on someone else’s feelings to fill my own.
I’m not a slut.
I’m a woman who believed.
A woman who wanted to love, to feel alive.
And who, at times, lost herself in the expectation of sincere love.
I am a woman who has been hurt.
Not broken.
Not ruined.
Not thrown away.
I’m not ashamed of where I’ve been.
But it hurts me to see it reduced to a statistic.
It hurts me that people refuse to see the depth of it.
I’m not a slut.
I’m a survivor of mirages.
A dented dreamer.
A clear-headed woman who now knows how to set limits.
A free woman who no longer wants to justify herself.
And if my numbers bother you,
then you’re not ready for me.
