Every night
One of them went to use her, smothered her like peanut butter
All she could do was lay there in wait
It was a mess
He was a mess
She was a mess
The life she'd been forced to live was a mess
A mess of flesh
A mess of money
Not a dollar of it did she receive
A mess of toothpaste and plastic razors and dollar menu dinners
A mess of peanut butter
Every night.
It didn't matter
It didn't matter how she felt
How she looked
What she wanted
If she gave consent
If there were drugs involved
She was a body.
And eventually, the job took that from her too,
But it wasn't a job was it?
It was all just peanut butter
YOU ARE READING
For Those Who Suffer
PoetryNot your happy poetry book. This book is a collection of poetry for those who suffer. Contains mature topics (like assault). NO TRANSLATIONS. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. *Irregular updates*
