Wednesday, January 22, 2014

The Whore's Daughter

Red. She dreams red every night,
veiled moans and muffled screams drip
black and grey; dirty scars, fresh gashes.

A kiss on the forehead,
her disheveled mother, burdened by
sins of manhood. Rumpled notes earned
with stains of forsakenness, safe inside
the pencil box. Skimpy legs uncertain
on a path yet unknown, hurrying
before the first bell.

She knows.
Words  unkind, labels cruel.
The whore’s daughter,
teachers call her. Confusion unbridled
of late. Define whore, she says.
She has her mother, scores of aunts
and camaraderie of other skimpy legs,
laughter, sobs, fights and hugs;
A family.

Orange turns to night, the street
festive with colours of hope,

whispered secrets of lust and loathing, 

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