The Whore

The song. Deafness in long cautions. Always have been. Misled. Thinking the sound was enough. Slanted walls. Ceiling pretending to be floor. The joke. The threat of fingers too close to the truth. Falling forward. Into when. I can only claim to remember having been someone. Turning off the alarm. In a slow dance. Between blindness and waking up. This void. The only bridge. Always open. Go through. Not over.

Looking up at falling. The hours talk loudly. In metaphors. The mountains are small. The molehills giant. The minutes an aperture. A lens taking pictures in black and white. Of all the colors I still want.

The thief in her underwear. Takes nothing she hasn't already lost. The ransom in her heart. Remains ignored.

Old movies. Grainy orgasms in fraying nightgowns. It was night. But it wasn't dark. There were moments. Gobs of spit on the tip of her tongue. She would mistake for opinions. Angry memories. Neglected whores. Finding their pimps. In the people who love them. Dead batteries. Marathons of. Pressing the numbers. Watching the movies.

As if, there were more than one.

Big dicks in little holes.

The whore is choice.