~~ Bitter Cold / Bitter Streets ~~

She had been a whore,

but not by choice.

The years of crying,

remembering all the him’s;

no one heard her voice

Bitter cold days and

bitter cold nights,

darkened alleys

junkies without sight

on another flight,

but just as bad as hers

She hated the nights

when she would end up

two miles from where

she had started.

Hating every time

her legs were parted

Her mother started her

on the streets.

Her father long gone,

body riddled with drugs.

Fresh is the memory

rats and bugs

The stale air of summer

filtered through the windows,

bringing memories of

the dilapidated rooms,

that had been home

 In the winter,

the uncovered windows

allowed the rain to

splash across the room;

but it was home.

She had not forgotten

the Church’s steeple

that always beckoned,

so high in the sky,

an Omen she reckoned,

when she was out and about

Finally she ran

because the time was right,

her eyes closed tight,

she kept the memory of the

Church’s steeple

It gave her solace

on those horrible

whorish nights

She opened the door

to say “No more”.

She ran to where

no harm could reach her