helena's motel room

the motel i lost my heart in.
before i would pick fresh flowers and make daisy chains in my summer dress.
now i'm a mans love for a night.
a slap in face, a harsh grab, and a echoing sound.
it's sad that moaning is starting to sound close to crying.
moan? cry? same thing.
the rundown motel was my bittersweet home, the burden of my past was catching me up.
the chance it gave me, saved me.
the bond of hate won't escape me.
men will come, they will go leaving some money on the bedside table, driving home, to their families who will never know.
i promised myself i wouldn't end up here.
my room is number 9, the age i began to understand things.
the shabby room contains a bed with off-white sheets, a small table and a broken dusty mirror i can't bare.
the small window on the front of the room outlooks the single road in the country.
i can't say when i will have the courage to pack my things and leave towards that country road.
i often wished a man looking for a night might love me harder than the rest and sweep me away in the sunlight to somewhere that upholds beauty and all things lovely.
then again, Helena wasn't a very special name.
to the motel i call home, help me find myself out of here, with my heart safe in my suitcase of broken leather.