16 June 2015

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
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.

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