You call me whore

like it’s a curse.

Like it’s meant to shrink me.

Break me.

Bury me in a word

that was never yours to hold.

But whore?

She’s older than your shame.

She’s sacred.

She’s survival.

She’s the woman you came from

and the one you still fear

because you can’t buy her.

You say whore

like it’s dirt.

But it’s earth.

Rooted.