The Escort


Mornings are the color of ripped newsprint
and week old coffee stains.
They're pale with a thin sheet of sweat
and dirty ripped cotton covers.

She doesn't remember when her life
became covered with a monochrome filter,
when her nights began to stink of cheap perfume
and cigarette smoke, the taste of discount alcohol
with a chaser of a stranger's' lips.

She wakes to another unfamiliar bed,
moves to the bathroom to cover her face in more makeup
before counting the bills that were left for her.
Her legs are heavy when she walks,
ignoring the judging glares and catcalls
she wonders how the world could be so dark
with the sun so high in the sky.

Poem Rating:
Click To Rate This Poem!

Continue Rating Poems


Share This Poem