Sickly sweet odour of cheap perfume hangs in the air.
From the third floor widow she stares wistfully to the street below.
Crowded with shoppers, lovers, diners and meanderers…
Clutching brightly coloured bags stuffed with all manner of trivialities.
She turns away, surveying her personal hell,
Crimson taffeta bedding creating a gaudy yet stark centrepiece against stained grey walls.
Where men, one after the other set sail on a voyage paid for by the hour.
A far cry from her childhood dreams – oh the naivety of youth!…
She smiles a bitter smile….her reflection in the mirror tells nothing of the angst deep within.
Of the dreams now crushed…hopes scattered like the petals of a dying rose.
The road ahead desolate and bleak.
No sweet memories to carry with her from the path she walked before.
Emptiness and blackness.. hidden by the thin veneer of the street girl.
The provocative clothing and makeup distraction enough for the men who seek to forget.
Her body a welcome release from their comfortable yet mundane lives.
Caring not for the flicker of sadness and desperation they see in her painted eyes.
Seeking only to quell their own thirst, before their return to middle class suburbia.
Gaze carefully averted from the track marked arm that reaches out to take her fee.
Pimp already calling her phone, eager for the next client to take his fill.
Needle at the ready to pump her vein full of mind numbing poison.
Desensitised and dehumanised, his control absolute.
She longs for the release that only death can bring.
Even that is beyond her reach, her movements watched around the clock.
Shoulders slumped she replaces the bed sheet.
The door opens and once again she smiles her empty lipstick smile.
Heroin drenched mind now dull, compliant.
Ravaged body, skeletal thin.. still of use.. for now.
Before she joins the others that were so casually used and discarded.
Their bodies wrapped in black plastic and weighted down with stones.
Cast out to a watery grave…..
In death comes sweet release.