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Whore. It's just a word. Or is it? Or can it be felt? Filthy. Disgraced. Shameful.
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I am not a whore. But for him, I became one. I became a whore the moment I met him. The moment he flashed his charming narcissistic smile at me. I didn't know then, that I would only ever be a whore to him. He knew. He knew all along the game he intended to play.
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I spent years down on my knees. Before him. Beneath him. At his mercy. Playing his sick and twisted little game.
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Whore is not just a word. I felt it. Felt whore. In my bones. In my soul. In my heart. I felt it to my fuckin core.
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I was his whore. And this is my story. The only way I know how to cleanse my heart of this filthy feeling.
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