women

Proper Whore

Feeling feels real. Its not. Is it. Thrill of the drug. That makes you want more. The absence is pain. Which makes me crave drugs. Why we like the drink. Why we love cocaine. Why we scroll and tap and charge and click. To hit the high. To feel. The thrill. That is put in my brain, my vein, my mouth.

Emotion doesn’t endure. A drunken rampage that could dance, or crash. The unpredictable ups and downs, the blackout memories. That everyone saw, and they shouldn’t have seen. Is it honesty or out of mind. Is it a demonic interpretation of desire played too bold. And it always vanishes.

Untouchable, but undeniable. Gods of swoon and tears. Innocent eyelashes. Feather finger touch. Enslaving masters. That demand too much. Full attention. Consuming fire. Ashes inconsequential. In the name of smoldering love.

Love. The joke of every fluttering heart. We don’t feel love. 

I’ve been warned that alcohol can destroy a life. I believe now emotion will do worse. The high with the unavoidable low. Unreal reality that won’t be real. Yet it makes me believe. And it causes me to cry. Can I possibly abstain from emotion like I could possibly abstain from whiskey. I don’t think I will. Abstain from either. 

The proper whore shouldn’t feel. I think that’s what I must aspire to be. Unaroused, unwanting, moving wherever they want her. Screaming what they want to hear. She will be paid well. If she can make them believe. What they want to believe. 

She, however, can’t slip into the stupor. Sober beyond emotion, her drive, her passion, the unstable temptations. Crowned queen, in control, of her out of control.

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