I’m a body. I wrote this essay once about nameless bodies. People they either mean everything or they are just a part of a whole. It’s perspective.

I have let three men touch me. They have marked my body with their hands. All I wanted was for them to make my body mean something. I wanted them to see all of me, to love me, but instead I have been used, abused, and the cycle recycles.

I’m naïve. I believe too much in goodness. I throw my dice and hold my breath. I often realize that there is nothing. That I am just a body to touch. So I utter words, I speak until whoever it is, shuts me up with a kiss. It always means nothing yet everything.

I don’t want the world to break me. But it already has. My worth lies in my dress size not in the words inside my head. I feel worthless and empty. I seek no love. That’s the thing. These men find me at my most vulnerable time. At the time that I long to be loved and they take. I give them anything for a glimpse at being worthy.

But I am only left like a beggar, a beggar that refuses to accept anything. I beg for them to come back and eventually I just accept that they only wanted to feel a body. It’s not my body that’s relevant. I am just a number. My brain means nothing.

You are worth so much. I have to remind myself of these words each day. But they echo and echo reaching nothing. I am vacant, the treasure inside of me has been stolen. I’m giving up. I don’t want it. not love. it never comes anyway.

Lately I only fall for destruction. Make me worse. Take me, fuck me, throw me away. I’m not playing this game anymore. I’m shutting up.


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