Kaushiki's soup for the literary soul

Whore

The sun rises again, another day.
“Wake up, whore!” My sleep breaks
A new day, and old me
Will have to work hard again.
I’m one of the oldest whores.
My age, I know not well,
But I have been bleeding regularly
For the last thirty years now.
Age hasn’t shown well on me
But I feel it coming already,
Just like a cold, severe, painful,
And then just like that, gone.
I live with Ranima, our mistress.
She had taken me in when
I’d been abandoned on the road
By my family, unable to afford
Another mouth, especially a girl again.
I was ten when I first
Uttered a word, twelve before taught
Alphabets, I can spell my name.
Shaheeda, I call myself. Yes, really,
I had named my own self.
Ranima had fed me, bathed me,
She gave me home, a family
And a mother. She taught me
That men were the worst monsters.
They only want to feed upon
Our soul, use our body and
Then discard out heart, throw it.
I lend my body to five
A day, no more, no less.
They don’t make love, they fuck.
They love to see the hopelessness
In our eyes, they love that
We suffer the same fate, everyday.
Atleast if the five fuck me,
They will spare the other girls
Who live with their loving parents
And not rape them nor torture,
To satiate their thirst of lust
And hunger to feed upon dreams
Of women, girls, sisters and mothers.
I say this, everyday to myself.
And hear it again, “Move it, whore”
I smile, ‘whore’, they call me,
The name is used to curse
While it’s the reason, why women
All over the world, sleep with
Little less greed shrouding their bodies.