Slut Parade
She wakes in a city built for men who taught their sons that purity’s a chain,
A church bell pounding shame into the morning as her stilettos kiss the stained cement again.No
shame in how her thighs still sting from heels
that mark the route she’s mapped in bruised delight,
No god she owes for lipstick red as warpaint,
fucking up the rules by owning every night.Streetlight halos cut through fog
and all the hungry men who pray with open hands and bitter eyes,
She’s the sermon, she’s the altar,
she’s the reason every “nice guy” coughs out tiny,
public lies.The pastors clutch their doctrines, pearls in fists,
their wives avert their gaze but never dare to leave,
Because her skirt’s a flag of mutiny,
her laugh a riot call—she’ll break the pews but never grieve.
Each window’s glare a gallery,
each sidewalk crack a scar the city’s fathers tried to pave,
She owns her body’s hunger, turns a curse to banner,
grinds regret into a grave.No secret shame,
no whispered blame—she writes her name in cum and sweat and wine,
A thousand prayers denied beneath her boots,
the goddess trampled every line.Her hips in motion mock the world
that never let her win, she wields defiance in the curve of every ass,
A wraith in fishnets, spitting psalms at glass,
she dares the preachers to confess.They scream she’s “broken,” “bitter,” “cheap,”—the same old
curse that men reciteTo keep their daughters locked in white and punish anyone
who loves the bite.
She leads the parade, a pageant built from all the bones of shamed
and silenced kin,
Every whore and baddie, every girl dismissed,
each one erased so “decent” folks could grin.She doesn’t
need forgiveness—she spits in the collection plate,
Wears pasties made of rosary beads
and lets the priest’s blood lubricate.A goddess built from trash and rage,
she rides the float of ruined kings,
Her nipples pierce the morning fog,
her laughter drowns the wedding rings.Each slut in step beside
her is a legacy the city tried to crush but failed to kill,
Every boot, every glittered thigh—proof the world’s still burning,
and the parade marches still.
She doesn’t need applause or pity, doesn’t crave the old excuse,
She’s not some cautionary tale,
she’s every reason guilt’s no use.Her power’s in refusal—refusal to bow,
to close her mouth, to ever hide,
She’s proof that shame’s a weapon built by men
who love to watch their daughters die inside.The parade’s a riot of gold and wounds,
a million heels and painted screams,
A pageant run by bitches, witches,
whores—all the broken dreamers who killed their dreams.And
if the city tries to ban her, if the world attempts to grind her bones to dust,
She’ll fuck the pavement, curse the sky, and leave her echo in their lust.