The fucking cycle of whoredom

I had found myself aching in a hateful way, a shameful desire sizzling, bubbling up, choking me and making me froth at the mouth like an angry dog. Had this ugly feeling been passed down to me by my mother? By my mother's mother and her mother before that? A generational curse of sorts, something that had been coded into my DNA long before I was even born, and then fed to me on a rusty platter with a dirty spoon. Becuase I could not imagine this stemming solely from my own wrongdoings, I am far too holy for that to be the case. I am a Frankenstein's monster of sorts, mangled flesh put together by moldy string and lace. A bad joke of a human being, and am I even human? As he cradles my hips I can't think of myself as anything other than a spoiled milk carton of a woman, rotten by my own naiveness of trying to fill the see-through hole in my gut. Every day I cultivate self-slaughter through wallowing in male attention and male hands, drowning in a special kind of hypocrisy only reserved to me. I want more, more, more, and I know I am going to burn myself on this. I have been warned of the effects of foolishly indulging in the cursed desire sent down upon me by God himself, and maybe this too will take me, just like it did my mother and her mother. The fucking cycle of whoredom to our own needs and wants, maybe I am not the one to finally break it. Maybe someday I will have a daughter of my own to burden with this so I can be free for a brief moment before I wrinkle and wither and there is nothing left of me besides a gut-wrenching feeling of something left undone.