Shut Up and Take It

At least the first guy paid

the first time I sold myself was quiet.
Just a nod.
His hand.
The weight of a zip.
The way a handful of bills whisper when it’s quiet.
They felt soft in ways he hadn’t.

My body came back to me hours later,
smelling like someone else and cold smoke.
I didn’t ask where it had been.
Didn’t want to know.

But now—
I don’t even need to undress.
People force words instead of hands.
press their doubts and judgement into my skull,
like loose change into a vending machine.
“Are you sure?” because I know better.
“Should you really?” I don’t want you to so you won’t.
“Why would you say that?” just shut up and take it.
questions I can’t wipe off with a tissue,
implications I can’t wash at 90° like cold smoke-clothes.

And I think I miss the clarity of the first sellout.
At least then,
it was a transaction.
At least then,
it ended with a handful of bills and a smoke.

I don’t sell my body anymore.
But the room they put me in is the same: all red light and limited.
Still lying there, quietly, until they are done.
Still kneeling, to keep things interesting.
Still saying thank you like it’s a password to stay safe.
Just that this time, they fuck my mind for free
rather than my body for pay.

They say I’m resilient.
But that’s just another word
for knowing how to disappear
without leaving the room.
Or the bed.

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