deepundergroundpoetry.com
Prostitute
The car pulls up. And all the time
I'm praying this'll be the man who saves me.
I want him to take me home, to tell me
It's all ok. Not another back seat.
No more dirty alleys or scabby hotel rooms.
I'm tired of all the things I have to do
To make men happy. Blow jobs.
French kisses. Up the ass, from behind,
Against a filthy wall on some estate.
My body is tired from all their lustings. They still cling to me
A grey film over what was once so beautiful.
I want you to be different, I want you
To look and see and understand.
I don't want to fuck you, I want to hold your hand.
Can I share something intimate with you? Something
I can hold inside to keep me warm at night?
He's wound his window down. His mouth opens
As he starts to speak to me.
I'm praying this'll be the man who saves me.
I want him to take me home, to tell me
It's all ok. Not another back seat.
No more dirty alleys or scabby hotel rooms.
I'm tired of all the things I have to do
To make men happy. Blow jobs.
French kisses. Up the ass, from behind,
Against a filthy wall on some estate.
My body is tired from all their lustings. They still cling to me
A grey film over what was once so beautiful.
I want you to be different, I want you
To look and see and understand.
I don't want to fuck you, I want to hold your hand.
Can I share something intimate with you? Something
I can hold inside to keep me warm at night?
He's wound his window down. His mouth opens
As he starts to speak to me.
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
likes 7
reading list entries 1
comments 4
reads 1510
Commenting Preference:
The author encourages honest critique.