Speaking for the Silent

Broken, she slides down to the floor,
Remnants scattered from the night before,
Her body in pain, her soul in hell,
She cries unchecked tears-that, after all
These years-come still.
Wrenching her face and her hair with a grimace
She reaches for some covering to hide
Her shame.
The cold wall, her only comfort,
Makes Spock look like Jesus as she
Cries against the wall,
Every tear a waterfall.
Her body is a tool, a method, a hole to be filled-
She hates it, but there’s no other way to pay the bills.
And the children, the children who cry, who clamor and prattle-
Must never know why their mom’s treated like cattle.

Tie in place, with ever stoic a face, the man struts out
Of the hotel where he “spent the night.”
What pleasure did he take,
With that “hoe” who fed his “mojo?”
He has money, and power-screw the price for hour!
In one hour, she’ll just be a memory, a moment of
Pleasure stabbing knives in an already dead body.
In two, a chuckle, a smile on his face-
How could he know he’s chipping away at
Her worth, what’s left of a disgrace!
In four hours, she’ll just be another whore,
A member of the choice cattle for us men to haggle over.
What happened to the worth of a woman?
What happened to the respect that is her due?

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