deepundergroundpoetry.com

Prostitute

The car pulls up. And all the time
I'm praying this'll be the man who saves me.
I want him to take me home, to tell me
It's all ok. Not another back seat.
No more dirty alleys or scabby hotel rooms.
I'm tired of all the things I have to do
To make men happy. Blow jobs.
French kisses. Up the ass, from behind,
Against a filthy wall on some estate.
My body is tired from all their lustings. They still cling to me
A grey film over what was once so beautiful.

I want you to be different, I want you
To look and see and understand.
I don't want to fuck you, I want to hold your hand.
Can I share something intimate with you? Something
I can hold inside to keep me warm at night?
He's wound his window down. His mouth opens
As he starts to speak to me.