Traffic

-Young prostitution-

In the night.
That's where I live.
In the night, i'm barefoot, sitting on the filthy tile floor. 
I breathe.
So relaxed as my face is being painted on.
This is what I do, all of the time.
Breaking my bones over strangers of the night. 
I am beaten and worn.
My eyes drip off my cheeks as I attempt to lift myself, pressing my feet on the floor with wobbling knees and curled toes.
I'm ready for them, i'm ready to walk into the flickering hallway, lined with fungus and needles.
Morphine.
Raw.
Embrace me raw and ripped and do your best to break me more than I have already broken myself.
Daddy's girl, they called me.
Now i'm calling men daddy, as bruised, unknown, fingertips glide down my body.
My head is a waste land and I don't even know my own name in this red lighting, looking into piercing eyes.
I wondered who was this mans mother, if he had kids, or a favourite song. Maybe even scars, deep like mine. Maybe a soul, unlike me. 
Did he remember his childhood? How about innocence?
I sure as hell did not.
Your voices, they are in and out.
I am a plague.
A sickly disease. 
Drugs on my tongue, feeling what was left of me, sweat out onto someone else's body.
That'll be 200.
I say.

Author's Note

Not exactly one of my best, I wrote awhile ago but what the hay, amiright?

Reviews

[KurKota]

Very dramatic writing of a terribly sad situation. I am a male, and have often wondered what hollowness must exist in someone that partakes in that life.....from both perspectives....what brought each to those points ? You do a very stirring, and real feeling description, to those situations. Dramatic feelng writing.