There are moments when people try to reduce you to something less—less than human, less than deserving of respect. This poem stands as a fierce reminder that boundaries and dignity aren’t negotiable.
Easy, isn’t it, to dismiss my anger—
To call me vile, evil, a temper tantrum’s danger?
But let me ask you, mister,
Would you take it lightly if someone
Spoke of your mother this way?
"Only sex, only sex,"
As if I’m here to fulfil every primal reflex
As if my worth starts and ends in a bed,
As if I exist just to feed your head.
Mature, you say? "It’s just a joke."
Your immaturity leaves me choked.
Would you call it joking around
If the same venom was thrown at someone
You call your own?
And then the mockery:
"Better a hooker, peaceful and free."
If that's your truth, then by all means,
Go sleep with a sex worker,
Because that's her profession—not mine.
She, with dignity, does her work.
But I am no machine, no hired perk.
I am human, with breath, with dreams,
Not your lifeless toy for sexual schemes.
Respect lies in understanding the line—
Between a person and their profession’s design.
If you can’t, then carry your misplaced pride,
For you’ll find no solace in my stride.
Because my body is mine—my choice, my way.
I won’t bend to your whims, not today, not any day.
This poem is not just a declaration of self-worth but a call to respect the autonomy of every person—no matter their gender, profession, or choice. How do you navigate moments where your dignity is tested?
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