The Prostitute

Look at my skin
ready to be devoured
by the selfish wolf
with the lack of self-control.

He will stare at me
as though I am a meal
and as I give him pleasure
he gives me his money.

He’d say “fuck”
over and over again,
and I would just let myself loose,
and moan the time away.

He’d think that I liked it,
he’d think that I liked him,
but no, I didn’t.
What I liked was his bill.

He would trace the curves of my body
and act as if he’s an artist.
He would even pretend we’re making music
and dance, oh how intense.

After his peak of ecstasy,
he’d fall onto me
as he takes some air to breathe
and takes my dignity with him.

I hate my job.
I hate fucking random men.
But I needed to make ends meet
and so the girl became a bitch.

“You’re very pretty,” they’d even tell me,
but I knew what they really meant,
“You’re only pretty in bed,”
but then again, every girl is, for them.

Once they’re caught or even in trouble,
I’ll be called a slut.
Oh how I’d love to go and ask them,
“Didn’t you say you had a good night?”


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