A Sea of Pus

They call it a profession. Selling your skin is not the same as selling your skill. They call it a bad habit. Nose picking is not the same as digging dignity. They call it empowerment. Selling a product is different from being the product. They call it freedom, Walking naked in a cage is not the same as walking free. They call it a choice But selecting whose hunger to feed is not the same as selecting your outfit. It is what it is- a meat market, where bodies hang in cuts of desire, priced by the pound. a silent auction, where the highest price buys nothing but shame. It's a landfill, where discarded intimacy rots beneath the glitter of screens. It's a plague, spreading through wires, infecting touch, until love itself coughs blood. It's a parasite, gnawing through the bones of society, spitting out empathy like gristle. It is a wound which bleeds on both ends. the watcher and watched are both drowning in the sea of pus. Behind the curtains, hands grow fat, minting coins from pain and spat.