It never crossed my mind that taking my clothes off for a couple of sweet words was beyond unethical.
You see, Prostitution is a trade-off between morals & money.
But what do you call it when you trade your morals for attention?
Society taught me, who I am, isn’t good enough,
Since then, I’ve been in search of validation,
& in return I left my body in complete annihilation,
Because I’m too busy living to give a damn about my education.
I’m too busy putting on make up because I don’t like the sight of my bare reflection.
My mind & body are in some sort of bittersweet altercation.
I seem to allure strangers that may never be properly introduced to my spirit but land up getting introduced to the demons in my head.
Their naked bodies creep in my bed smelling of another woman’s stench.
They, fondle my breasts,
And I effortlessly part my legs
Like the red sea spread for Moses
With each deep stroke leaving my sheets a bloody mess…
Their patience for me,
Proportionally inverse to their dick size.
After the hot sex,
Their emotions for me evaporate faster than the sweat in between our fully satisfied bodies.
Situation left sticky…
So heavily drenched in lonely that they don’t even bother to hold me…
Scared that my loneliness might linger on the follicles of their skin.
” Fuck bitch! i’ll call you back in 2 minutes”
wounded up being a few weeks,
Mind heavily impregnated,
Fueled with a million assumptions & insecurities …
Because they forever make my body a vessel that makes them come, & at times on my face,
But won’t be around when the bitter tears race, like my tears are some sort of kryptonite to their manhood…
They’ll never know the million scars that hide the very pain I scratch in their back.
When they come back,
They bite my lip so hard,
And suck out the bitter taste they left lingering on my lips from the last time.
I’m so damaged, that I’ll probably only be able to recognize my own reflection when the broken piece of the mirror is used to draw lines that satisfy my addiction.
The voices in me don’t sound like me anymore, they sound more like demons, demons that sound like them.
At this point,
My body is well acquainted with every position in the karma sutra,
We don’t even bother with foreplay, because I’m already wet,
Then I hear a careless whisper
“baby girl, this doesn’t suit ya”
Thing is, I’m not doing this to look good, I do this to feel good…
All I ever wanted, was to be more than a wounded 2nd option
“time heals all”
But what do I do when every day it feels like the hands on my clock also suffer,
But with arthritis,
See, I’ve been looking for God EVERYWHERE,
everywhere but the bible,
Trying to figure out a lil better about this thing called man…
Because Adam was easily manipulated by Eve,
But all my pussy power can do is manipulate men to leave.
They pulled me from their chest, put an apple in my hand & blame me for their mess…
I lay in bed crying for invisibility because when I look up, the reflection I see of myself, is the god in him…
I know that the story ends in sin…
Many lifeless bodies who could have been lawyers, doctors, pro athletes lay breathless suffocated in latex on the pile of tissues left in my bin…