Whore
A Poem
Does it make me a whore for wanting less?
I am the aftertaste left on the nectar of his skin,
the sweet scent left in her bedsheets,
the silhouette that walks the hotel floors
with darkened eyes and tangled hair.
Am I a whore for wanting a taste of temporary?
To never make love and only wanting to fuck,
to only hold you when I crave a sensation that lasts five minutes,
every breath and moan a prayer sent to the heavens
simply thanking them for this moment.
Am I a slut for being the lover of humans?
I invite them to my bed and into my legs
I give them a piece of heaven,
a piece of hell
and let them walk back into the reality of their lives.
Am I a whore for never finding love?
Something so rare, profound and hard to find,
the thing that poets and authors always write about,
the ‘something’ that those lovers desire
but I’m too cautious to follow through.
Is a whore for never knowing the difference between love and lust?
For never wanting to explore the hearts of men and women
their bodies a temple, their hearts on their sleeves
Am I a whore for never connecting to their hearts?
