The Dirty Poem

This is a page torn off the histories never told.
A page written in the blood of fantastic tragedies.
It talks of celebrated sacrifices and stained destiny.
And a little bit of the pleasurable beauty of a dying soul.

I was born to a generous famine which didn't let me die.
I was born to a heartless world which couldn't let me live.
So, I linger in the shadows between life and death -
Dressed up for both occasions, waiting to be murdered every night.

You remember me, don't you?
You can definitely recollect the warmth my cold death brought to your heart.
You can vaguely remember my fake smile and my strong scent.
If you try harder, you can even remember my name and my voice.
But I ask you, do you remember the empty stomach you touched
As you pushed your desire deep into me?

You remember the taste of the bought out love of my corpse.
You remember the buying price you paid to rent my body from my soul
You also remember your worthlessness measured by the worth you paid for me.
Then why don't you remember the deafening silence in my moans?
Nor the drowning wetness of tears in the pleasure I serve to you?

You need me to prove your worth as a man.
You need me as a walking proof of your hypocrisy.
You need me as a sleeping bed for your malice.
You need me to make you feel king, even if so for a few minutes.
You need me to symbolise the most elemental need of your survival.
You need me to fill your dreams and the voids in your life.
You need me to be denigrated by day and devoured by night,
To satisfy your carnal and cannibal instincts.
You need me to feed your false ego with crumbs of my dignity.
You need me because I am the woman you fantasize the most about.
You need me because I am the reflection of the adultery of your thoughts.
You need me because you cannot call yourself a whore!