❝ Whore
/hɔː/
noun
DEROGATORY, or maybe not?
A girl with Marlboro cigarettes and
cherries in her fridge;
maybe golden chains too -
a secret sin, someone who might have cared.
But, your hollow fingers couldn't
trace beyond her skirts. ❞
I'm sorry mother -
for who I became.
But no one ever rescued me.
My eyes always burned under
the red lights of clubs;
But, so many have stolen
my hair ribbons,
and I've made a fire out of kisses.
No one ever except the moonlight
slept on my shoulders.
They have just tasted me.
Called me golden tobacco,
my eyes honey unlike my liquor licks.
Wrist watches are in my closet,
And family albums under the bed.
But hey mother,
tell me, why do I have scars on my thighs
or worse -
bullets in my heart,
as his fingers traced my darkened lips,
never my freckles
I'm never falling apart, though.
I'm fine.
I'm just being broken.
But again stitched with platinum zippers.
I wanted your threads mother.
I feel awful, I said in the hospital.
But they said, that it's not allowed
for you to feel so. They laughed.
That's okay, totally fine.
But, they said my bullets were traces
of his fingers sliding between mine.
I was refused to heal.
~Sampurna
YOU ARE READING
Ink And Echoes
Poetry♚ ❛ Juliet, Tell me what is it like to vanquish - When you tossed the coin, And stepped on the battleground, With the accent of swords. Still you stand, Hands dripping of sin. In search of Romeo, You killed, And killed, And died. ❜ { Highest rank in...
