Whipping Girl

Kendra Lyn
May 26
1 min read

I love yous are meaningless

when I hate you holds more passion.

You pick at my soul

like a sale on high fashion

Too much to love,

not enough to cherish;

just your second-choice prize

when forever has perished.

I’ll never be her, as sexual and obedient,

or her- perfect and clean.

Just your dirty little cutting board,

I remain cut, forsaken and unseen.

Raised with rigid expectations

of a full-time working slave.

Forty weekly hours “All day everyday;”

forty more “therapist, mother, maid,”

(With lyrics from "LABOUR", Paris Paloma)

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