And she's a Moon, Cosmic.

Thinking about her

seems redundant

for her own existence

is but a figment

of her own imagination.

She's lived a thousand lives

worn a million faces

with each mask falling

from her broken facade

to show the ruins left behind

from the drugs and selling herself

so that men may have their kicks

so that she may make the bills

to pay for the little one who waits

back home to get sick from her breath

covered in the cum of her clients,

Still she wonders why her family gets so sick,

why her child is always ill sleeping next to her at night,

why her parents always look at her

with eyes so empty–

because they know what she does

in the bathroom stall of the print shop

bending over to show how well she's studied

and done her kegels to please the men.

Her parents know

that she drugs unwilling parties

with the help of the dwarf

to make her wallet bigger,

but what she doesn't remember

is if the coffee he's brought her

was dosed with scopolamine or not

sometimes she's curious

why her pussy aches,

why her chest pounds,

why her neck is sore,

why her head hurts–

scopolamine, burundanga.

He rapes her

when he doesn't want to pay her

she's okay with it

she's fine

she's a good girl

when she's on her knees,

her aching knees,

when she's bent over the toilette

getting pounded from behind

by yet another

and another

and another and another

and another and

another

and

another

and another,

she's fine with it

it's what she's been taught

what she's been made to be

what the drugs have done

what the desperation led her to:

becoming a tool for the pleasure of others.