deepundergroundpoetry.com
She Didn't Deserve This
Oh hey guys, heads up for these triggers: rape (alluded to), drug use, prostitution, transphobia, murder
…1274…1275…1276…
On the 1277th swing cycle of an overused ceiling fan, two eyes struggle to open. The fourth wave of vomit decorates dingy, bile infused carpet. Dry heaving and sounds of choked sobs fill the cluttered room, too cluttered to echo the resignated sigh leaving vomit crusted lips. A dampness settles heavy all around, credited to three days of excretion, from a previously believed lifeless body, as well as the embedded stench of mildew that is a permanent resident. Acrid repulsion to dulled olfactory senses aside, this is a much more accommodating place to awaken to than what she is used to.
She, born April 4th, 1983, as George Beatty, now goes by Georgia Starr. He has been rejected by three sex change programs and clinics, but identifies as female none the less.
As a child George wanted to be the president of the USA. At age 13 his father, embodiment of disgust, gave him up to the rat infested streets of Chicago when he announced he would be the first woman president of America.
Under flooding red lights in a back alley, face scraping against brick wall, consent dubious at best, George found his new identity.
Georgia stumbles out of a pitiful looking trailer, heavy bags under her eyes give away her age. Thirty-One years becomes a burden on the face when painted with all she has been through. She does not feel sorry for herself, but a line bought with her body helps to start the day.
She looks atrocious, but it’s nothing Manhattan has not seen before. She walks unnoticed in damp shadows, successfully avoiding the filthy slobs parading around as human beings. She may live a life of trash, but she holds her head high and walks like a queen, refusing to be known as anyone less than the best. She tells herself that the filth shouted, or hoarsely whispered in her ears most nights, translate to queen in their own way.
This is the lowest point of her life she will ever face, or at least she hoped. But hope gets you nowhere in this world. You are your own hope.
Her hope washed away with pouring rain,
Along with what was left of her blown out brain.
…1274…1275…1276…
On the 1277th swing cycle of an overused ceiling fan, two eyes struggle to open. The fourth wave of vomit decorates dingy, bile infused carpet. Dry heaving and sounds of choked sobs fill the cluttered room, too cluttered to echo the resignated sigh leaving vomit crusted lips. A dampness settles heavy all around, credited to three days of excretion, from a previously believed lifeless body, as well as the embedded stench of mildew that is a permanent resident. Acrid repulsion to dulled olfactory senses aside, this is a much more accommodating place to awaken to than what she is used to.
She, born April 4th, 1983, as George Beatty, now goes by Georgia Starr. He has been rejected by three sex change programs and clinics, but identifies as female none the less.
As a child George wanted to be the president of the USA. At age 13 his father, embodiment of disgust, gave him up to the rat infested streets of Chicago when he announced he would be the first woman president of America.
Under flooding red lights in a back alley, face scraping against brick wall, consent dubious at best, George found his new identity.
Georgia stumbles out of a pitiful looking trailer, heavy bags under her eyes give away her age. Thirty-One years becomes a burden on the face when painted with all she has been through. She does not feel sorry for herself, but a line bought with her body helps to start the day.
She looks atrocious, but it’s nothing Manhattan has not seen before. She walks unnoticed in damp shadows, successfully avoiding the filthy slobs parading around as human beings. She may live a life of trash, but she holds her head high and walks like a queen, refusing to be known as anyone less than the best. She tells herself that the filth shouted, or hoarsely whispered in her ears most nights, translate to queen in their own way.
This is the lowest point of her life she will ever face, or at least she hoped. But hope gets you nowhere in this world. You are your own hope.
Her hope washed away with pouring rain,
Along with what was left of her blown out brain.
Published 6th Apr 2014
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