Her Story

Her Story

Day dies,

Moonrise,

She comes alive.

In dark,

Lust and lechery lurk,

She ventures out in its search.

Does she hunt,

Or does she become the prey,

Or is her youth bait,

That rejuvenates a man’s desires?

Afflicted by poverty,

Slaved to money,

Inclined to obtain the luxuries,

She trades her body,

sells her love,

to men who have her to their content.

They say,

She is the nocturnal queen,

skillful in the art of seduction,

and affording pleasures to men.

Touches and kisses,

that means nothing to her.

Men’s cologne fills her nostrils,

That she despises the most.

And yet they cling to her self,

adherent not to budge or leave.

Yet she lives,

with a broken, tainted soul,

A heart with a hole,

A pocket that is light.

She never thought,

of doing this,

of becoming such.

But life is ironic,

and we always end up,

 doing the things which we resolve,

never to do.

You can find her,

amidst the dark alleyways,

at the corners of the,

poorly lighted, forbidden,

pathways.

Standing, waiting,

in her bizarre clothes and make up,

with her lackluster eyes,

broken dreams and unfulfilled hopes.

To you,

she is nothing,

but a girl desperate for money,

a rag doll,

putting her body for service.

So you cut her wings,

scar her body,

bruise her soul,

assassinate her emotions.

But such a misery for her,

that  she needs you for her survival.

But unfortunately and sadly,

you don’t know her life,

nor her story.