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Heartfelt Harlot

they have burn holes in their flesh
from falling asleep with cigarettes
and i wonder why
my skin does creep
when i see them coming closer to me
up
my
street.

jaundice tinges in their eyes,
covered in smoky sighs.
and i wondered.
and i wonder why...
my bed scented with soot,
drudged up by their dirty feet.
how their calloused hands
scratched across my chest,
leaving trails of their betrayals
behind in their wake.

and i'm left marked in their wake,
a scarlet letter across my chest,
the little tawdry thing,
the harlot without heartfelt
desires to call her own.

my lips do long to confess,
crimson in their rage,
that i spent nights in cracking air,
listening to the honey hum of your voice,
waiting for your words
to smooth my tainted hair;
that i, so afraid of what lies beyond my door,
would open the window at night
to let the you in.

when i was doused in charcoal beauty,
far removed from decadence,
and i let your smoky fingertips
graze the periphery of my canvas,
all the colors sharply defined
only to melt with your sepia touch.

and you of amber eyes,
of the land, and i of the sea,
how i let it complete me.
so far removed from
those that lurk in the wake of my decadence,
with burn holes,
with murky irises.

and i'm a tawdry little thing,
a harlot without hearfelt
desires to call my own.
but truth be told,
in this cracking sky,
i bear a scarlet letter across my chest,
that you carved into my flesh,
to fulfill my desire
of being forever branded
by your smoky fingertips.

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