Whore

No one’s ever asked her why she lives on her knees
Eyes glazed over as she unzips another fly
To devour another cock, that belongs to a man
She’ll never remember the name of
Crumpled notes shoved into a hidden pocket
In the lining of her skirt that doesn’t amount to much
At the end of the night, when a bottle of vodka
And a 50 of weed are inhaled, leaving little for food
Though she’s been living off instant noodles
Longer than she wants to admit

No one’s ever asked her why she lives on her knees
Why she’ll let the boys stick it anywhere for the right deal
Cash – a trinket – drugs – a night in an almost classy hotel with room service
Anything will do, as long as they let her forget herself
While they pound her any which way, into some kind of oblivion
Which she ceased to get off on a long time ago
And she can fake it like the best of them, not that anyone seems to care
When she knows she’s just a willing body, ripe for the fucking
To anyone that can pay a back alley whore
With a pretty enough face and a tight ass

No one’s ever asked her why she lives on her knees
Though some of the nicer men ask her
What’s a nice girl like her doing in this profession?
Before they fuck her, grunting into her, talking dirty
As she stares at the floor, or the ceiling
Or the stained sheets of the bed, that have seen too many girls like her before
Looking for something only whoring could give them, while she zones out
From the man inside her, replying to his dirty talk with
“oh yeah baby”,  “fuck me harder”, “that’s it… yeah”
In a tone that would get her fired if she were a phone sex worker

No one’s ever asked her why she lives on her knees
Or why she drinks herself to sleep every night
Chasing the demons down with weed for good measure
Or the occasional snort of speed, when she can afford it
When the thought of sleep is too harrowing for her fragile mind
And no one ever hears her screams in the night
As she fights demons from that past, that only she can see
When all she wishes for is someone to see her as more than an object of sex
While the words echo in her head, from memories bleeding through
That sex is all that she’ll ever be good for, while daddy’s hand wandered up her thighs

© Indie Adams 2012