Flesh Trade

There she is,

A dark silhouette under the lamp light.

Each night,

A nameless face amidst the crowd.

The men flock,

Searching for their taste of heaven.

Hushed whispers,

A few glances thrown in surreptitiously.

Rustle of clothes,

It’s the backseat or the alley each time.

The men walk on,

Without a look or a backward glance.

While she is left,

Picking up money tossed, tears disguised.

Come nightfall,

And you will see her there yet again.

For her it’s just work, the flesh trade!


Photo by Sean Witzke on Unsplash


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Written by Sheetal Ashpalia

Sheetal is an aspiring writer who potters in poetry and discovering more each day! She was coerced into trying her hand out at poetry by friends from the writing community and is thoroughly enjoying this journey...