Is it not disgusting,
To feel the hands of a man you once asked to shield you,
Men who roamed freely, exploring bodies without bounds,
But turned their words into knives, to shame and belittle,
Telling tales of another, "sexier" place to lay their lust,
Mocking love like it was a joke between friends.
Funny, is it not?
When we cried out in agony, they laughed in the arms of strangers,
While we clung to the pieces they shattered,
They sought warmth in empty sheets, called it their right to "explore,"
And then returned, expecting sympathy,
Claiming they had "learned"—demanding to be seen as human.
Yet what kind of human laughs while another suffers?
What kind of love thrives on shame?
Is it not revolting, the thought of their touch,
When all they offered was betrayal, wrapped in the guise of freedom?
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