I am a whore, and I know I am
because I was given that label
by an angry man after I shared
his time and sipped at a seven
dollar coffee while we discussed
the weather and why the coastal
residents of British Columbia
should probably think about
packing up and moving inland.
I am a whore, and I know I am
because I was given that label
by an angry man after I shared
his time and gulped at a sixteen
dollar shot while we laughed
under black lights and shared
a mutual appreciation for anyone
who would break their nerve
and get up and bend their rusty
knees during forgotten old songs.
I am a whore, and I know I am
because I was given that label
by angry men over angry years
that have swaggered their way
onto my Mom’s Little Helper calendar
and stick close to any new moon
and the yellow outline of the red arrow
that screams ‘IMPORTANT’ as if I
didn’t already know how to schedule
me too and any awkward questions
my daughters may have when they
ask why their mother is angry
and reads all of their text messages.
I am a whore because some sweet
woman’s angry son didn’t like me
when I told him no and I took his hand
from my belly and placed it on my own.
I am a whore because that woman loved
the sound of his voice and the idea
that he was a good boy, not like his father,
who cruised the streets at night
collecting the women who wore whore
even better than I did; and I have worn it
close to my heart for years now,
like an itchy tag sewn into the neck
of a cropped top marked double XXS,
and sold to those triple XXL hoochie
mama whores dancing down
the sidewalk in front of my sacred
Monday morning coffee spot.
I am a whore, according to all of them,
and I am raising flags and whores
brighter than any they have ever seen.
© Nicole Lyons 2018
You are a whore I would love from the depths of my soul cradling you in my arms as you were part of me meldedinto me until eternity.
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According to the American Heritage Dictionary, the big one with the appendix of root words, the word “whore” traces back through the Iindo-European languages to the root “Ka” (one who cares), as in “kama” in Sanscrit, meaning love, as in Kama Sutra. Interestingly, several other disreputable Ango-Saxon words share the same root. Do you care? Oh, yes you care hugely.
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Reblogged this on cabbagesandkings524 and commented:
Nicole Lyons on being called a whore
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Nicole this is fucking great!!!! i love you!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
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Wow! You are no whore! I dont care who called you that!
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Reblogged this on My Screaming Twenties and commented:
Nicole Lyons never fails to captivate me 💛 An incredibly powerfful piece x
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Reblogged this on A Global Divergent Literary Collective.
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It seems this is the anthem of too many women. Perfectly said.
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Reblogged this on Whisper and the Roar and commented:
Nicole Lyons
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Thank you
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Damn. . .
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🖤🖤
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I love you, Whore. So damn much! ❤
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wow. Love it.
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Reblogged this on Journeying Through My Thoughts and commented:
W O R D S
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Wow..your writing always blows my mind, Nicole. You are a powerhouse of extreme honesty, in your face writing. It surges from your heart and it touches the soul of its readers.
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