The Whore

She sat there on the window ledge.
The flaky, greyish-white paint digging into her legs
As she sat. knees up to her chest
Her eyes just staring. Staring into the night.

The streetlamps pierced the darkness
Like tiny needles searching the mice that
Scuttled over the cracked pavements.
Going nowhere. Coming from nowhere…

The cold room in which she sat sighed and groaned
As it shared in her grief.
If it could break its foundations, it would.
After all… until now, it has been as alone
As the girl who has taken refuge inside its walls.

The room was empty with peeling wallpaper,
Dusty wooden floorboards and a single rose
In the middle of the room. I parchment letter
With exquisite writing.

The name on it…
Illegible.

Her tears fell
Like the rain that day when they kissed.
Passion blinded their hearts
Perhaps had they been more careful…
…perhaps…!

A lone figure walks and stops under a streetlamp
He turns round and looks up.
His eyes willing her down from her window seat.
She sees him, but allows her brown eyes to drift.
Drinking in the dark mountains ahead…

Yearning for the freedom she used to take for granted.

Wishing she never trusted the bastard
Who showed her the real meaning of love.
The blissful pain it brings.
The guilt.
The secrets
And above all…
The despised LUST she always saw in his eyes.

She wishes she could choose between Heaven and Hell.
Then, perhaps in Hell she’d be safe from his torment.
Emotional blackmail and his lies.
At least in Hell her emotions cannot freeze over.

He used me, she thought.
Putting her face againsed the glass.
Eyes closed… welcoming the cold that offended her skin.
Putting a hand on the pane…

(The smell of mould attacked her nose.)

Opening her eyes, she sees him still.
Staring up at her, his eyes expectant.
A stranger to her. A welcome stranger.
Perhaps she can become lost in his passion.

(Or rather… lust.)

Perhaps she can forget for a few hours
How her very being has been abused.
Tortured.
Hated.
…Perhaps.

Wiping her tears she stood up and brushed the
White flakes of paint off her fishnet tights.
Careful to step over the letter on the floor,
She left the crumbling house.

Tottering out onto the pavement in her stilettos,
She lights a fag and leans againsed the decaying garden fence.
Breathing in the smoke.

(It tasted sweeter than anyone’s love.)

Her careful eyes watched his as he approached.
She forced a smile and stumped out the cigarette.

“How much do I owe you?”
He muttered.
She named a price. And they walked.

Where they were going…
Only he knew.
He would take her into his chosen place
And seduce her like all the others…

But ironically…

Sadly…

She hoped…

Perhaps this one will be different.