Writing Whore

You told me I have to play the game of society. If I don’t I won’t succeed as a writer, but a whore. Who is to define my intelligence by the purple marks of sex on my skinny neck? You? It is a burned piece of lust that I can’t even express myself in my own home. I must keep my skin clear of ink and holes and my intentions a secret for the respect of my own blood and mates. I shake my yellow painted fingers at the thought of hiding who I am. You say I am branded by my partner. In no way is he tattooing his fingerprints on my forehead or making me his little slave. If so, it’s frankly none of your business and if you feel you should wrap yourself around my existence then you have some soul searching to do. I would advise you to eavesdrop on yourself or stare at your reflection for a couple months before critiquing someone else’s fucking life. Until then, have a marvelous time helping absolutely no one in the world.

This poem is about: 
Me
Our world

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