Beautiful

I am your beautiful whore.

I greeted you with smiles and sweet soft words.

You were comforted.

I have a checklist.

It goes ankles, hands, breasts, lips, cheek, smile, stomach, pelvis, thighs, calves.

Feet not required, as they tell you to run away.

They get insistent, the small sole heats,

and they burn for you to run, run, please, please, run.

Feet aren’t required.

I am the foul slattern who patterns your doorway with my gypsy scarves.

They linger there and stain the air with their sadistic half-slashes of color.

There used to be this space.

Where holy feet fell on prepared ground, like worship.

And her toes, they were blessed.

And her heart, it was gold, with soft touches of white.

I used to be a laugh,

and it was genuine and fine.

There were seeds of promise in it,

they are gone.

She will laugh to find fault.

She laughs at her weakness.

She laughed for softest illusion, love.

She is your beautiful whore,

bought with promise, time, and fear.

she weaves and bends where you’d expect,

though opaque fabric hides well,

the truth is no more than your willingness to search.

Her tears will mingle with your feverish demand

Her struggle, not physical,

the weakened acceptance of this time, that touch, this push, that hug.

She doesn’t blame.

No points, no denouncements,

you are sweet, and lonely, rich.

These things, she understands.

The rub of the soft white muslin on inner thighs and dead closed eyes

She tore at the beautiful skirt, the birthday gift

It came off in a strip of red rose

and impatient he seized her

and weeping, she turned,

and mocking, he split her soul, half for whole,

out and down and in and up and bleeding,

sob, flung into gravel,

the coins that bought Jesus,

scattered about,

and rocks softly ripping the air,

“Whoever is blameless shall cast the first stone.”