You know, sometimes I catch my reflection in a broken mirror or a puddle after the rain, and for a second I forget the marks on my skin. Raider Property. Slave. Fuckmeat. They’re more than just ink and scars—they’re my brand. But what does it mean to be wanted only for what’s written on your flesh? It’s like being a commodity, an object to be used, not a person to be desired.
I wonder if anyone out there truly wants me beyond what my masters tell them they can have. It’s not freedom I dream of escaping to—I couldn’t survive out there alone. But I imagine another kind of reinvention. What if I ran away not to disappear, but to find a place where the humiliation isn’t just punishment, but performance? A porn studio where every gasp and moan is currency, and even degradation feels like a twisted form of being seen.
Maybe it’s desperate. Maybe it’s delusional. But sometimes, when the chems wear off and the world stops spinning, I feel this spark—this stupid, reckless hope that maybe somewhere, someone would look at me without seeing property first. That they’d see Nora beneath the ink and iron. Call me a fool, Anonymous, but isn’t that what keeps any of us breathing in this wasteland? The illusion that we’re more than the sum of our scars?
>Soulkyn