Track records are damning, They slip into the folds of your skin like bar codes of your past.So that the technology of our future generations may simply blink to download them. Tracks records are the tattoos of prostitution to a prior cause.  They may connect the dots of our honorable battle wounds, or simply spell the names of those who have branded us. My track record revolves around assholes. The assertive-aggressive, jealous, protective, possesive type of entity that clamps opinions down my throat until the only enmity I can devour is for myself.   Track records tell us we are worth being the Wednesday girl, even though all the other days of the week exist. He just has to schedule us back to,....Back held up by a brick wall instead of the fiber of my being. The orange residue of its crumbling consistency is my new jail suit.   It flakes like fool's gold promises you pecked into my porcelain neck.The ink etched contracts I signed with the winding of my tongue and the ignorance of my brain. Is it characteristic of the stubborn to bend with change?That you offered up to my cracking pedestal, your promised fortification was beaded by strings of air.  You left with your answer before endeavoring to read my lips.... Your eyes could never be begged to rise so high. The addictive bends of your lies laughed against the irony in your cockeyed grin.Just as the musical charm of your skin foiled against mimicked passion. You, are the transcriber of my track records,  transcripts of all the cacophony you have caused without ever opening your lips.Just a simple dart of the eyes,  and I was lost.  However, the time bomb of my ignorance finally was ticked off.It imploded.Laughing in place of your desolate heart.  Track records can revel in the names of assholes. But future men tear past boys apart.Track records are merely the summation of where we have been, not to be taken as the back tracked road map of where we shall possibly go... Slowed by the fear scar tissue cages us in, too long has my tongue doubted the fertility of my mind,  because a past girl let bastards touch her skin, And these are the things we don't speak of.  Darkened by the purity of virginity,  we are never meant to publicly count our losses. Used girls become martyrs in burning skin, searing for the sake of reputation.  Silence is the only thing stopping bar codes from morphing into tramp stamps.Double standards have become double edged blades.Track records are what keep "naughty" girls slaves.  But future men tear past boys apart.  Ripping their cynicism out of young girls' hearts.