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The definition of thot [that ** over there], via Urban Dictionary

A woman who pretends to be the type of valuable female commodity who rightfully earns male commitment—until the man discovers that she’s just a cheap imitation of a “good girl” who is good for nothing, and definitely not for relationships or respect.

If women are products, then thots are cheap goods. More than that, they’re knockoffs: low-quality merchandise that attempts to masquerade as luxury items.

They generally dress in cheap clothing, try to act like they're better than they really are, or think they're not ****** but high class when they're nothing close to classy. They demand respect, money, gifts, dates but do nothing to deserve any of it because they have no self-respect, no manners, low self esteem, little education and on top of all that they are thots because they have no self worth.

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he called me a thot.
the same blood-boy nightmare who bragged about his ******* and double cup. too cheap to buy actavis generics, so he drank himself into a stupor on walgreens brand dye-free cough syrup. he acted black, said words white boys shouldn't have near their mouths. his friends were ableist at the best, and misogynist at worst.

he called other girls thots too.
but i was different. stick-and-poke told trans king who told american spirit who told blood-boy what i confided in a friend. a story that ends and begins with my tears, tears from gagging, tears from telling my mother about the worst three minutes of my life and how my knees and heart hurt afterwards.

i embodied thot.
left my family for friends, joked about the pain until it hurt even more. i found myself crying in bathroom stalls, looking down at my body in the bathtub as i learned to breathe water. the girls said i was thick, i didn't know if they meant it in a good way. the boys said worse. i wore camouflage pants, comme de garçons tops, air force ones. i jumped on trends like a wild cat stalking prey. but i could never catch anything worthwhile with my soft, clawed paws.

he smiled like he was better than me.
after blood-boy stunned summers and winters alike, burned spring and fall, and for what? to call me a thot? i knew what i was to him. but he didn’t define me anymore.

he called me a thot.
and this time i fought back with my eyes, didn’t just sit there and feel words welling up inside.
because even thots are queens.
because i used to be deciduous, but now i’m evergreen.


//

i am the prime of numbers
always destined to be divided by one
the quantum of entanglement
the fusion of bright day
my brothers whisper tales of starlit jewel skies
my close embrace would melt your silky skin like
summer melts strawberry ice cream from the hands of a child
i replay 4.6 billion years in my mind
wondering,
how you came into being
as if by miracle
by chance of chances
i kiss your lips with my loving rays
always and forever
counting the softness of the atoms in your skin
cutting pieces of myself on the wires that control this universe
i face my doom gladly
hoping,
you'll notice i would bleed my hands dry
just to give this momentary blip you call life
another
haunting kiss,
joyous smile,
and most dangerous wink
before the hands of time
turns the miracle of your flesh to ashes
i could never tell you
i would burn everyone else
to ashes a thousand times over
just to be alone with you
just to feel your mystery right here
next to mine.

Trust is like hair

It can go all the way down to your waist

But once you cut it...

It takes years to grow back

would there be any tenor to the world
were tomorrow i gone? vanished—
like some ethereal dotted eighth—from
one divine orchestral stave—into eternal hush.

there is our moment played—and should the maker
miss his mark—a flat, or too sharp for a natural—
the score proceeds unwitting—cradle of keys
whe’r sound or sour—and there is symphony regardless.

but if the conduct of those chords progress
until the maestro halts the score upon us—a
premeditated coda—a failed tune—a clumsy strum—
and that is how the world in me plays out—

would there be music in the world again
were tomorrow i gone?

If the way you verbally abuse yourself,
Caused you physical harm
How often would you do it?

No one would ever think of
Punching themselves in the stomach
So why do we always talk to ourselves
Like we are boxers
Trying to win a match
Against our biggest enemy
When our biggest enemy
Is our conscious
Telling us
That we aren’t good enough

you will never be forgotten.
ever.
your name twisted into metaphors and colors and distractions will forever
be painted across pages and pages of her favorite brand of notebook,
no matter how many she burns
there will always be one she forgot,
and she will only find it once she had almost forgotten you.
she will find the one Papyrus notebook
and all of your metaphors and colors and disractions will come flooding back,
just like how the ocean in your eyes
flooded her heart all those years ago.