Life's Poetry.

I hope this speaks for itself.

You see those scars right below your hands? There, in your wrist. You’ve been cutting yourself again now,

weren't you?

Just this morning you were on your way to the thieve’s market to buy fishnet stockings and rosy-lips chap sticks. Men were looking at you while the parting of your breasts dangles through the air, your face shining with 12am-sweat and those men’s eyes are following the swinging of your bottom. I must have been too observant, but you seem to have enjoyed all of it. 

Wasn’t it crazy that just yesterday, your dad bought you a doll made out of paper? Wait, he didn’t buy that, he can’t. He doesn’t have the money. And yet you insist on having those, because it was your long life dream to have all the outfits you’ve always wanted. Just like those paper dolls. 

You’ve been wishing to have a pool in your backyard, because you said that the well in it was too deep, too dirty, too mossy. You wouldn’t want to wet your precious locks with that antique-stinking water well. You’re far more classy than that. 

And now, the skies are turning dark, it’s your time. You stand in dark corners of parking lots wearing the fishnet you just bought this noon, and your lips are flowering with a burning-red color, waiting for a car to pass by you and let you in. On the way, you pray the prayers you had known, praying and thinking of the endless possibilities that your life could have been better if it wasn’t for your parents, and you end up realizing that it wasn’t their fault that you’re still swimming in poverty. It’s no longer their cargo if you’re in a legal age and you haven’t quite improved the state of your life. 

Your virgin hair locks that only your mother could braid is now smothered by men, and you cry while you let them bouquet your hair strands into a towering bun. You’ve put your lips in soreness from all the pressing, the sliding"  the teasing. They were once the daydream of a young man who knew that the only one who could love himself was him, and the only one who could love you was you. But now, they’re just dry examples of the ‘before’ pictures in magazines.

You think that you are a flower, and you may just be one. But these men are plucking your petals, and hoping to find your beauty. They can’t and they won’t.You think that you’ll be raised in the pit you've been in by men, drowning in their genitalia. But I tell you, poverty may have granted you bigger-dangling-earrings that hang beneath your ear lobes" it may have granted you rosier lips and cheeks" it may have given you lesser linens to use as garments to cover the precious diamonds between your legs" it may have given you climaxes, at almost every night by different wealthy men" and your money might just have reckoned the days left you’ll spend spreading your thighs. Your so-called job might have given you a lot of things, but you've lost everything that made you pure, that made you a woman. Your feminism, your beauty, your self-respect"your dignity. 

They say that Honesty is the best poetry, but you weren't a poet, your scars were the idylls of the nights you’you've spent in hiatus from your job" and if you were a poet, you’re a bad one. 

In every love-making moments you've spent in the bed with men you’re not familiar with" you forget what love truly meant. How it tastes like, how it smells like, how it looks like, how it must have felt like" you forget how to love. 

This is your life’s poetry. 

Author's Note

I hope you find the independence in this piece.

Reviews

[Pax]

whoa!

Simply mind blowing dive in this journalistic, realistic, prose-poetic piece. I believed it is something common in our country. Your fourteen and you’re really good at this. Your highly observant fella, I say.

Human natures tells us that we tend to look for an easy way out. And the person in this story took that. I think in this line of business there are only three types of people who do this for a living. One is that they did it out of intense need to survive life's challenges - in this case it's poverty. Then it becomes a job, that feeds every needs. Second one, perhaps is that, they do it for sex. Then they become addicted to it, it becomes a habit for their everyday living. And lastly the third one is they do it for the money. They love money so much that and the easy way to make it is an easy sex. The sex industry is still booming, common throughout the history. I guess it’s part of how life goes in every one of us. It’s either we choose the good one or the bad one. It’s a path that needed to be chosen in some cases.

Not sure about the second one but the first & third, I am sure with, they are almost connected. Because I have seen many sides of it, in the news, and around me.

Perhaps this person you see in the story have done it for the money. Human desire is a very strong feeling. It drives a person’s will to push through any big or small life’s task.

You know what, this person might see it, the dignity that she had lost. Or she is trying to be blind to see the truth that she have gotten used to being like this. Making her numb to all the burden it will cause.

And then one thing I learned here in wc, that you can never fully see what a person’s goes through unless you have walk in his/her shoes. There are too many possibilities that this person took this kind of job. My mind keeps on flowing with possibilities but I will end my almost an easy review. You’re a very bright fella ms. Fly.

Welcome to WC…
Pax ~

[MOON]

Lyrical write and sharp insights. Lovely .