“I Wish I Was a Whore”

“I Wish I Was a Whore”

(a poem of reclaiming)

I wish I was a whore.

Maybe then I’d know the art of pleasure—

The kind you lean into,

The kind that whispers yes instead of why?

But no,

I’ve worn the name once or twice without the dance,

Branded in rumor,

While my body stayed locked behind a thousand silent desires.

Wish I were easy to be loose,

But I’ve clung tight to every piece of myself,

Sheltered my skin like it was sacred—or shameful—or both.

Most of my life,

I’ve been celibate in spirit and in flesh,

Not by vow,

But by something much more complicated

I wish I could just have sex,

like casually,

like freely,

like it didn’t come with flashbacks,

with ghosts under the bedsheets,

with questions that linger long after the clothes go back on

But it doesn’t feel soft.

It doesn’t feel safe.

It feels like nothing.

And then less than nothing.

And I feel like less than me.

I don’t really want marriage.

But maybe it’s the only place

I’d let my guard down long enough

to feel something beautiful

without shame, storming in after.

To be touched,

and not feel like I have to

disappear to survive it.

I wish I was a whore—because maybe then

I would’ve had at least one good memory

etched in skin.

Not this gallery of grief,

not these aftershocks of hollow encounters

that left no joy,

no echo,

No love.

Not everybody carries sex the same.

Mine is cautious,

tired,

hopeful still.

I wish I was a whore—because at least

She gets to choose her yes.

Ever wonder how she become a whore?

Is it her choice or a lack of care

For the brokenness she can't escape

Except when on her back she lays

Will your judgments heal?

Or that's not the deal?

You don't get to tell her how to live

She is a survivor, yet you drag her still