I used to be a certain breed of a slut.
But then I found God,
While spread eagle looking dead in the eyes of a man I fucked in silk sheet covers of dark red.
That was his favourite colour.
Dark red.
It was my favourite colour too.
Partly because it was his, but also I believed it was a great colour for a slut.
Smeared kiss marks, bold lace and latex lingerie,
Boxed wine stains festering around lips,
The dark red messy stitching of my veins sewn into the bags underneath my eyes,
Worn as
A symbol of passion.
I think being a slut matters more on mindset than numbers.
I mean how many men would I have to sleep with to be considered a slut?
50? 20? 5?
Numbers are subjective depending on personal gods, mothering states and how pink one sees the sunset.
To me, being a slut meant holding a set of rackety values,
That with moist anger and phlegm-like ignorance could be turned into a puce steel.
I’m not saying these values were necessarily inherently bad,
But they weren’t extensions of my good.
For me, being a slut was the only protest I knew against the words my father gargled up from the back of his throat and spat at me.
But in fact, I had become my father,
And in spite, I think if he had known, he would be very pleased with himself.
When I met God I found a knife in the back of my wrist.
On one side of the blade, my name engraved in the most beautiful cursive,
On the other, in the same font, ‘Resilience’.
Something; ambivalently, my mother always told me would be my greatest power.
The dark red ponds of blood on the swan-like silver sabre,
Swimming and sparkling demanded my dignity and respect.
To which I bowed my head.
I don’t identify as a slut anymore, though some remnants linger.
Still, my favourite colour is dark red,
Driven by the same levels of intensity, but different intentions.
Satin ribbons tied in demure bows in my hair,
Tinted in my ingenue lip gloss,
Of my becoming evening gown that graces my leading collarbones,
And on my nails, hence everything I touch as a reminder of
A symbol of passion.