whoring myself out

broken being

whoring myself out

not the quick transaction
of flesh for coin—
but the slow dismemberment
of self for survival.

each morning I paint my face
with competence and grace,
arrange my pieces in order
of what the world will buy.

the shame lies not in the selling
but in how natural it’s become,
like breathing underwater,
like bleeding without pain,
like choking on wind.

they say choose differently,
as if choice itself
wasn’t the original sin,
the trap I was born into.

i’ve written so many versions
of who else I could have been:
the brave one, the pure one,
the ignoble one,
the silent one,
the one who finally said no.

but every ending reads the same—
this is who I am.

the mirror shows me
exactly what I’ve become:
not victim, not villain,
just someone who learned too well;
how to slice himself into shares,
how to smile as he served them,
how to burn for a good job.

and in the cimmerian box,
that i crawl back into freely,
when the paint peels away,
i don’t cry for lost innocence
or roads not taken.

i cry because this skin—
a whore’s costume— 
fits perfectly.