Most times I hate my body
Hate that it seems to love men that don't love her back
And can't even make her climax
I hate my body because she is easy,
Doesn't fight when he tugs at my tights and invades my womb
Only turns away as he continues the deed, holding back tears because maybe this is what she asked for
I hate that my body count has elevated
And some not even by choice
The tally getting bigger with every over compensation I make for their comfort
I'm nothing more than a pocket pussy
A toy for pleasure
To be used and recycled when ever they see fit
A listed for object that shrouds them in shame one the come
Either to their senses or completion
Which ever comes first
I've willing reduced myself for men who don't even know more than my name and the color of my panties
I've become the number of penis
That filled me ( sometimes)
I'm a sweet scent and condom wrapper
A late text after the burst latex
Crumpled bills tossed at my slightly rounded belly
A numbing needle and soft tears
At least my body count has dropped by one
YOU ARE READING
BRoken WOrd
Random✒️I'm a Poet✒️ I've learned that the best poems are based on life events No matter how magnanimous Or Microscopic
