She sells her sex because that is all that she knows.

Her lipstick is aptly named ‘Scarlet Harlot’ which occasionally bleeds and smears onto her chin when her mouth goes to work.

There were tears in the beginning because there was a glimmer of hope.

The hope of a life fit for a queen – of chocolates, rose bouquets and fine expensive wines. Exquisitely stimulating conversations and candle-lit serenades. To be told, ‘you are everything and everything is you’ and to be kissed with lips and not with hands muffling her screams.

Her skin is now soiled with the touch of dirty old men, their adulterous hands that refuse to leave an inch of her untouched. The idea of ‘Intimate’ was merely intimidating.

The nightly, ritualistic scrubbing will never rid her of the memories. The memories of sour smelling breath, rough, coarse hands, the foul words that spill from their rotten mouths and their final climatic whimpers and moans before she can finally stop holding her breath. She scrubs until she sees the red washing away down the drain, at least now she knows she still exists.

It was not always like this. There was a beginning, with dolls and with sunsets. When a future seemed possible, plausible even. Yet the path steadily became overgrown and the brambles relentlessly tore at her skin. She lost her way. Now she had become the doll, their doll and the sun had already set.

There are no tears anymore. Not because the mask fits perfectly to the contours of her face and not because she has found paradise.

Now the water runs clear.

Now she knows what must be done.

D R Forest 2015 ©

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