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Hurt Girl

Hurt Girl
The lion head knocker raged under his hand
With no mistaking the staccato message of now.

Crack, crack, crack the old lions chin slammed again and again.
Echoing down the empty bulbless hall.
“Go away” whimpered the shell of a once pretty girl
her whispered voice adding, “I can’t give you what I haven’t got”.

In the instance, neighbours’ curtain’s twitched in their pious tutting glee
Straining not to miss the visitors tirade.
The letter-box lid leaped out of the way
of the vile expletives that spewed through
in a thousand thundered furious splinters
that echoed surreal inside her desperate destitution.

With shaking knees under her chin,
squatting in the dark of her desperate despair
on the mattress she found by the skip
she rocked to and fro and gulped another swallowed scream
as each raging tirade scraped away at her failing bladder.

Bellicose, kicking, strained every ancient screw
at the lock and chain on the old door timbers.
As the man from deepest shadow-land
Timed his thunderous hisses.

Then startled like the sight of a ladybirds wings
A far more gentle voice tempted.
More time to pay, or perhaps a top up loan, “on account”
was dangled like an almost graspable sunbeam of dust.

The skeleton girl and her neighbours knew the offer
made sure the pimps intentions
for just a few hours work he’d stop the screaming cramps
but not if she kept the punters waiting.

With clear sad memories now of her row with Dad
Another door had slammed long ago over just a short skirt and makeup.
“Sorry Mum, Dad” she whispered.

With the rusty Stanley knife she had hurt herself with, so many times before.
The lion head knocker bit deeper with each gouge to empty both her wrists.

Drugs do come on account
Don’t they?


Mike Davis

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