A Prostitute’s Caesura

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She wore red velvet; redder than velvet was her heart.

Gone were the nights of regret, she learned to cope with it.

She wore black leather; blacker than leather was her hair.

Gone was the longing for hope, she learned to subside it.

She wore blue denim; bluer than denim was the night.

Gone was the fear of pain, she learned to expect it.

Gone was her yearning for closure, she learned to live emptily.

Gone was her craving for normality, she knew it would never exist.

She injected brown heroin, browner than her wet eyes.

She didn’t want anything anymore, and she never really did.

It was hard to write her suicide note, because her tears blurred her vision.

Just as fast as bullets from a gun, her breath left her lips.

She wore death exquisitely, more exquisite than her life at least.

No more cigar burns; no more abortions.

There she lay numb, and lifelessly beautiful.

 

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