Stitched Into My Name 🪡

Hiii my darlings, 🥀

Before you read Stitched Into My Name, I wanted to leave a little content warning here because this one gets quite heavy.

This poem explores false accusations, rumors, bullying, verbal and emotional abuse, victim-blaming, social ostracization, trauma, psychological distress, and self-erasure.

There are also references to nooses, bleeding, bodily harm, emotional breakdown, and the deterioration of one's sense of self, alongside derogatory and misogynistic language, including words such as “witch,” “prostitute,” and “slut.”

At its heart, the poem is about what happens when you are accused, condemned, and spoken over before anyone bothers to hear your side of the story—and how being repeatedly disbelieved can make you question your own voice, identity, and reality.

So please read this one gently.

And if any of these themes are difficult for you, you are absolutely allowed to skip this poem. Your peace matters more than finishing a piece of writing.

With love,

Jana

I hear whispers, but I'm unable to scream.

My mind unable to fathom what I'm hearing.

A lie,

A rumor,

A story made by…

Me?

Me?!

ME?!

This author has never seen this manuscript.

She did not draft it.

Did not revise it.

Did not sign her name beneath it.

Yet somehow,

it wears my face.

Suddenly I'm fifteen again.

The air tastes like chalk and judgment.

The walls lean closer.

Even the ceiling listens.

My screams are echoed,

but my cries are not heard.

I cry.

I beg.

I unravel.

I go mad defending myself

against a story allegedly told

by me.

No logic.

No reasoning.

Only conclusions.

A crime searching for a body.

A noose searching for a neck.

How must I prove my innocence?

How much sanity must I surrender?

How much dignity must be flayed open

for them to consider doubt?

How much damage is required

before the spectacle is satisfied?

Must I break visibly?

Must I collapse on cue?

Must I bleed in measurable amounts?

What is the exchange rate

for credibility?

How must I prove my innocence?

What ritual of suffering is required?

How loudly must I break

before they believe the sound?

How much damage is needed?

How much harm must carve itself into my skin

before I am proven innocent?

Must I bleed evidence?

I'm surrounded by words that have nothing to do with me.

They circle like vultures

arguing over a corpse

that is still blinking.

"Disgrace"

"Disappointment"

"Witch."

"Prostitute."

"Slut."

"Cheapskate"

"Liar."

"Liar."

Liar.

Liar.

LIAR.

LIAR.

LIAR.

LIAR.

The word multiplies.

It breeds in the mouths of strangers.

It crawls under my skin

and stitches itself into my name.

I’m innocent.

Yet I am proven guilty.

No judge.

No jury.

Many witnesses —

but no one wants to hear them.

"Audi alteram partem."

Hear the other side.

The principle rots in theory.

No one is hearing me.

My voice dissolves like sugar in boiling water.

My defense floats, unclaimed,

like evidence thrown into the sea.

The courtroom is a corridor in my mind.

The gavel is gossip.

The verdict was written

before I learned to spell my own truth.

I open my mouth —

and ashes fall out.

The whispers grow louder,

feeding on silence.

Somewhere beneath the rubble of accusation,

there is still a pulse —

but it is tired now.

Soft.

Flickering.

Questioning its own existence.

They have named me everything

except human.

Except victim.

Except child.

Except innocent.

So I begin to disappear

in ways that leave no evidence.

Smaller laughter.

Quieter opinions.

Careful footsteps.

Measured breathing.

Self-erasure

as self-defense.

And still,

truth does not rot

just because it is buried.

But burial changes it.

It comes back altered.

It comes back skeletal.

It comes back

carrying the memory

of being abandoned.

And so do I.