Sticks and Stones may break our bones, but words will never get to me.

A poem of lies.
One word after the other.
God forsaken bullshit written by someone who has obviously never been called the names that I have.
And I've been called them all.
Every name in the book, everything a kid could think of.
It seemed every new year my class all went to a party that I wasn't invited to and learnt new words.

Don't tell me that broken bones don't hurt more than believing that you're worthless, pitiful, undeserving of love. That you belong in a zoo instead of your own house. Don't tell me it hurts more than pulling at your own heartstrings until they snap and using the broken ends to tie so tight around your throat that you feel like your drowning in a sea of laughing faces and pointing fingers.
DON'T TELL ME that it hurts worse than lying awake at night and planning your own death. Using science lessons to find out exactly where the right veins are to cut. Don't tell me it hurts more than a broken heart of a broken person. Wanting nothing more than to be six feet underground by the age of twelve. Just for being different.

Because broken bones heal.