Once Was A Whore

Isolation became my sanctuary after years of suffocation in a crowded city. Surrounded by indifferent faces, I learned that loneliness thrives in numbers. Every plea for recognition fell into deaf ears. Every blow landed harder because I was already down. My scars were dismissed, my struggle invisible, yet I refused to break. That relentless fight consumed me—a living nightmare that nearly destroyed me completely.

Now, distance has granted what proximity never could: peace. I've discovered that healing doesn't require witnesses. Solitude doesn't demand justification. The wounds run deep, scarred with memories of those who used me, discarded me, and still claimed ownership of my body and soul. But I've learned the difference between existing for others and living for myself.

Yet salvation is never simple, especially when darkness calls to darkness. Two men emerge from the shadows of my carefully constructed isolation—one promising redemption, the other embodying the very chains I've fought to escape. One offers tenderness wrapped in hidden agendas; the other demands surrender without apology. Between love and degradation, between safety and devastation, I'm forced to confront whether I've truly healed or merely learned to wear my trauma like armor.

Time doesn't heal all wounds. It teaches you how to bleed quietly.