Whore

I light another cigarette.

Have I told you that I quit smoking 3 years ago? And yet now, I feel like every time I think of you, I need to finish a good stick or two.

I lie down my bed.

I see the smoke rise above my head.

I can’t do this anymore.

I know that maybe you want my love.

I know that you’d like my weight to be on top of yours.

I know that you like touching me. Sometimes, I do too.

But we can’t remain this way forever.

I’ve been a whore to many men now. I have been that silhouette of mischief crowding their brains every time they’re inside the embrace of the women who don’t know my name.

These are the women who know me by the scent of my perfume. These are the women who know me by the colours of my lips. These are the women who know me by the traces of skin I leave on their men. These are the women who know me by the things I leave inside their lovers’ cars. These are the women who would love to know me. These are the women who would love to destroy me.

But what they don’t know is that I am not a whore by choice; rather, I am just a woman who’s trapped within the consequences of my reckless desires for someone to call my own.

I just want to fall in love.

But at times like these, I’d rather not.

So let me reach for that final cigarette.

This one’s done and I have already burned my fingertips.

I have burned my lips from not paying attention to my vices.

Let me get that final cigarette.

And let me tell you that I am not your whore.

I am not yours.

For I am but a faceless, nameless, spirit, you’d wish to call your own.

But you can’t own me.

No one can, not even me.

 

 

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