Whore

Yesterday, while on break--

from pitying myself--

I saw a note. For a date.

An address. "Don't be late."

So today, I called off

and dolled my best doll

and saw myself through the gates.

I walk in, lights dim. 

The rose bushes, trimmed. 

For a second, I almost felt safe.

I'm quick to undress.

Faster than the rest.

Honestly, I don't know why.

I bare my spirit for yours,

hoping that for sure,

your heart, on mine, you'd place.

I stand there, naked,

waiting, faded--

there's always a chance that you'll flake.

"Whore," your tongue whips.

Every inch of me--flinch.

And you tear your gaze away.

I scrunch at my rolls,

my trauma, my soils.

I dumped it all in hopes you'd erase.

Slowly I accept 

that you'll never undress

and I'll never see more than your face.

So I carry my soul

and I idle alone,

looking around just in case.

All I want is to be seen,

and to equally see,

so then a whore, a whore I must be.