writers club

There is some beauty in a single post lamp, in the middle of a deserted street, how it solitarily stands, illuminating darkness.

I walk around drunkenly, because apparently that is more appealing. I could never speak like this in front of a costumer, I do not use words like aloof, I say shy I do not use incompetent I say cant. Because for some disturbingly psychological reason: these men cannot be overpowered, not even with words.

I walk past the cars, my now cold flesh peering through the wholes

On my fishnets, they gush and gush and I like to distract myself, I like to think of cities I `ve never been to, of books I`ve never read, of lands I `ve never heard of. I like to think of Singapore while the middle aged baled guy says "come closer hun, let me get a good look at `ya" I 'seductively' lean towards the car and silently wonder if breathing In the rainforest feels different.

He opens the door for me, like the gentle men he is, and I sit on the dirty sheets of this rotten motel room reeking of feet and piss.

The middle-aged bald guy. The teenager covered with acne, the slim tall guy with the gigantic nose, the short skinny guy in the polo shirt, all identical, carbon copies of him, every single day his hands crushing me, his breath soiling me, he whom is called my father breaking me.

Every single day snatching my little collected piece of hope and thoughts and life every single day even when he couldn’t possibly be here, even when I am not awake his image invades everything in sight, my protector, my provider, my rapist, my father.