"she's kind of a whore,"
they whisper while she walks by.
hushed laughter echos around them.
"well, with a body
like that I'd be one too."
the girls think she's slutty
after seeing
the photos she posts
online.
what they don't see is
years,
and years,
and years
of insecurity she's dealt with.
insecurity she's actually overcome.
the boys think she's easy
from the way
she talks to their
friends.
they see nothing but a body.
they don't see her brain.
"I heard she was
passed around
a group of
guys and their friends,"
mostly in a black out episode.
a form of self harm
because why would any
mentally sound
woman
sleep with those guys?
though she isn't in a spotlight,
she sure as hell is under a microscope.
everyone sees it.
they dissect her.
they see the provocative shoots.
they see the flirty texts
their coworkers pass
along.
they hear the stories
of a whore with mania
and the grocery list
of men
that come with it.
they don't see the
drinking in dark rooms
alone from a liquor bottle
at four a.m.
they don't see the speeding
down highways
without a fear of dying.
they don't see
the tear stained cheeks
when she leaves
the bathroom
after crying to herself.
they see the socially deemed
fun side mania.
they don't see the ugly
painful depression that follows.
because, yeah,
she might have a good body,
but it's nothing compared
to her brain.
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