To Slutty Girls All Over The World

Baby,
when he calls you a slut,
do not bite his tongue.
Do not give him the gift of your wet mouth
against his.
Baby,
when he calls you a slut
torch his name
and remember how alcohol makes flames burn brighter
so douse it in the wine he blames.
Douse it in the dark alley way he’s never felt.
Douse it in sisterhood and friendship
and people who actually give a shit.
Baby,
when he calls you a slut
hear power.
Hear a singular word that doesn’t define you.
Hear your own sexuality and fingers on a trigger.
Hear double standard and that he still wants to fuck you with the lights off.
Hear your untold stories, like learning to swim with your eyes open for the first time
or falling in love
or falling out of it.
And back in.
Hear that time someone held down your throat and you said no.
Hear misconceptions.
Hear assuming your number.
Hear your worth because of a photo
or a night
or a bunch of nights.
Hear lullabies of the one you loved with all your pieces,
all your parts.
Hear minimizing,
belittling,
trying to make you something palatable.
Hear, “I don’t actually know anything about you, but I think I do.”
Hear, “You scare me so I’m going to call you something I can label.”
Label him,
or her,
or them,
the ones who don’t deserve you.