Whore

Whore

“Whore!”

I raise my hand.

Here I am.

I am throbbing

With pride.

I wear their scarlet letter

Like a badge of honor

Between my thighs

Head held high.

I am Whore.

Stare.

Look at me

Like a slab

Of meat.

Feel free to objectify me.

They are your limitations

Not my own.

Rebellious and defiant

I stand.

Against the double standards

Of a man’s society.

I am Whore.

And they are angry.

Because I do as they have done

For centuries.

I whore myself out

For pleasure,

Just like them.

They pant with need

For me.

They fume

And their bruised ego’s swell.

They know that they can have me

And it irks them,

Because in actuality

I am taking them.

I am not contained

Or defined.

Identity does not exist to me.

Simply,

I am.

I come

Multiple times

Into my own freedom.

I am not a slave to men

Or religion

Or society.

I am free to fly

Through my desires,

Both ethereal and carnal,

Without a care

For appearances.

I have been

The repressed housewife,

The good daughter,

The God-fearing churchgoer.

Now,

I have no self-imposed titles,

Only those smoky names

That other people

Envision me as.

I’ll be dirty.

Call me "whore".

I’ll accept the term

With orgasmic ecstasy,

For it is synonymous

To me

With “God”.

“Whore” equals “God”.

“God” equals “Whore”.

Hilarious.

A maniacal laugh escapes me.

Well,

I’m not trying to say that I am God,

But I have the freedom

To create

My own realities.

I have let go of the boundaries

That other people hold themselves to.

So scream it,

As you hold me down

And bend me over

And pull my hair

Oh!

God!

Yes!

I like it...

When you call me…

Whore.