Pigs Don’t Fly – Read Poems aka Dinosaurs

ABOUT THE POEM: "Pigs Don't Fly" is a visceral autopsy of a transactional encounter gone wrong. Blurring the lines between intimacy and exploitation, the narrator recounts a moment where a paid interaction devolves into psychological warfare. It explores the toxic symbiosis of guilt and greed, challenging the traditional victim-villain dynamic. Here, two broken people collide in the dark—one seeking connection, the other survival—only to realize that in a room built on commerce, nobody leaves with their soul intact.

You called me and asked me to come over the phone. You were already naked on that brothel bed, legs spread wide, begging me to slide inside you-pleading for it-when you suddenly froze mid-thrust and whispered, “Am I a whore?”
You had summoned me yourself. You had offered every hole like a gift. The question was never mine to answer; it was always yours. You were the one on the clock, in your own kingdom, collecting cash, cock, liquor, food, and the sharp thrill of twisting my guilt like a blade-all in a room that smelled like home to you.
I had no words. For a moment I forgot where I was. Tears rose uninvited. I pulled out, zipped up, pressed every bill I carried into your hand-ten times your rate-and left without a sound.
Outside, wiping my face, I realized I didn’t even have bus fare. Then my fingers brushed two forgotten hundreds in my back pocket. That’s when the picture snapped clear: I’d been standing over a woman accusing me of reducing her to flesh, while to her I was never flesh at all-just a wallet with legs. And she was the one who waved me in.
Shame hit me hard. I was ashamed for ever thinking the word “whore,” ashamed it had lived in me at all. I kept walking. You never called after me, never asked why I left. Nothing. Probably busy counting.
If you weren’t a whore, the next time we met in that room you would have pressed the money back into my palm and said, “I’m not.”
You didn’t.
I’m not accusing you. I didn’t use you; you used me-and you used yourself. You handed me the word, then punished me for letting it touch my mind. That’s the trick: you deal the cards, spill the mess, then hide behind “woman” and watch the blame fall on the man every time.
Every guy who leaves you feels like the villain. The pattern repeats and you never see it. You decide men can’t handle someone as beautiful, wise, or good-hearted as you. Or maybe you’re simply clever-blackmailing people for money.
I know I’m missing pieces; people always leave me. But you-after baring everything a woman can bare-still walk away empty.
A whore’s story often begins with the same people who swear they’d never pay: uncles, “friends,” brokers who took everything for free, then handed her a chocolate and taught her that love arrives as a transaction. Her idea of romance is born in a bed and dies in the same bed. Anyone who offers something beyond cash feels, to her, like another trick-because it usually is. She’s not wrong to doubt it.
There’s a difference between damaged and broken. A boom that damages isn’t the same as a bang that breaks. I wasn’t damaged; I was broken by loneliness. And you-whatever you call yourself-weren’t interested in sex or love. Only games dressed up as romance, games meant to taste my wealth, stroke your cheapness, and move on to the next target.