Dye white with red

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
Do you often question your morals concerning sex workers and how you treat people just because of the job they have?

Submitted: December 28, 2011

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Submitted: December 28, 2011




I am the beautiful,

The young and the fragrant;

Whose withered petals dry to ash,

My perfumed delights turn sour

With your rancid breath calling my name,

You see a sweet girl,

Laid in silk and pearls, wrap her in white,

Compare her to the flowers,

Sing of her innocence so chaste,


I tend to the needs of the helpless,

The chair ridden; aesthetically unpleasing,

Forgotten heaps you call your veterans, your brothers,

I give them connection, a gentle touch

To relieve the wall between them and us,

The feel of belonging; twitching fingers,

Are men measured by many standards?

And does numbness not steal their pride,

Of senses stolen, torn flesh in bloody mounds,

Take their pleasure and tie a noose,


Crushed by bodies,

I bare burden more than sweat and blood,

The scourge; the harlot; the spark you don’t have,

Dye this white with red,

Drown me in your prose gone wrong,

I feel pain, bound with the twisted

Minds you throw to the gutters,

I see their faces,

I know their weight

So you don’t have to,


Lovers behind bedroom doors,

Condemners and judges when crowds gather,

Any act so open is punishable,

Punishable by those who sin the same

And hide their shame in boxes,

Cut throats; worthless; damned,

Daughters and mothers and sisters

Faces scribbled red with names crossed,

Women no more,


I who sings in the dark and walks on paths

In sullied ways,

I who cares for those you forget,

Those you shun and claim no want of,

I who sees not pleasantries everyday nor

Love that you claim your own,

I am beautiful and fragrant and young,

I am the whore who has done you no wrong. 

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