The world mocked her.
The world told her that she had
nothing to offer to anyone except sex.
The world told her that she was ugly.
The world shamed her nakedness,
tossed dice on her clothes.
Boys swirled inside her pot of clay that
simmered with passion, jiggling like vicious insects.
Through pain and distress, her pride broke as
she became detached from her physical surroundings
and engulfed by the essence of low self esteem that crippled her insides.
Love paid homage to her hips for a while.
A short time visit questioning her integrity and
drowning the recesses of her mind,
creating a funeral march within her heart.
Madness grasped her heart all the while;
chaos petted her brain as she juggled between
self hate and anger.
Her own proliferation of life’s miseries.
She wasn’t good enough for anyone.
So, she laid her emotions bare,
feeding off lies and inconstancies,
salvaging the appetite to feel good for a while.
Her thoughts lurked down below for satisfaction.
Feelings of self worth faded fast like shadows at dawn.
She only knew how to love with that warmth between
her legs. Fake smiles for an anxious queue,
fading screams riddled with hate in the night as
she vocalized a past crisis in a sombre tone insinuating
abusive thrills, justified illusions and solid confusion.
Being juggled like a sport creates bruises and here she lay broken.
Love was only like sperm and had not reached the womb of her heart.
Respect was just a figment of her imagination. Her mind had swirled,
as she faced emotional strife. Battling her inner demons,
fighting endless wars and battles with her mind, heart and body.
Fighting off verbal bacteria in the street, women of farce provoking her shame.
Sneers and jeers by the side walk, muffled conversations
through corridors as they constantly cussed behind her back.
Being strong is overrated, but she knew that she shouldn’t
give herself up for the human poll again. She hated what they called her.
A stereotype she had become. A cheap slut they said.
Various names she accommodated for mistakes that are now marked
on her skin. She didn’t choose to be a prostitute. Like any other woman,
she had dreams of education, a good job and marriage but time must
have veered at a point in her life when she lost her feelings of self worth
and learnt to recite the freak’s poetry at dark.
Her strength and tenacy fought behind her smile as she broke to speak.
Tears of distress and regret now drenched in her clothes.
She knew the pain that came with being a prostitute.
A life lived in turmoil for choosing a path so reckless.
Squeezing through hospital hall ways to treat different forms of infections and disease.
A constant struggle, tainted with shame, anger and inadequacies.
Picking up her broken pieces, she replaced self hate with love.
Rebuilding her life, she replaced anger and shame with respect.
Starting afresh, she started appreciating herself more and learning from her mistakes.
Taking baby steps, memories still fresh and her mistakes still haunting her.
She learned the importance of self love and the beauty of life.
Taking detours of her faded journeys, true love lay basking in her future gates.