I’m just a body to you, aren’t I? A whore, a convenient shape, a piece of flesh you think the world already owns. You don’t count the fingerprints because you assume they’re countless, because you assume I’m meant to be touched, meant to be taken, meant to be passed around like a cheap cigarette in the back alley of your ego. You treat me like a public service, a body with no history, no price, no right to say mine. And when you speak, i feel it. Every time you laugh, every time your eyes go feral, every time you reach for me like I was already paid for, you turn me into an ashtray. And the ashes inside? They’re mine. My dreams. My softness. My stupid belief that someone might see more than the heat of my skin or the curve of my mouth. And yes, I take responsibility for my so‑called whoreness. I do. Because how could this be my destiny if I wasn’t built for the spectacle? For the role? For the theater of cheap desire you all crave? Isn’t that what you want? my body as your stage, my ruin as your entertainment, my humiliation as your applause? You want me to perform the ache, the hunger, the surrender. You want me to be the fantasy you can touch without ever having to understand.