Friday 9:30pm
She could be a prostitute, But i'll never deny her as my friend.
--Sylvia Plath (Journals)
She is shivering
Small bumps rising up
Along with short skirt of
Yellow, with purple polka dots
Wind rushing
Through tress, past houses
Shrieking angrily on my window, banging
The tattered screen, falling out.
The girl whimpers
Much too cold, no comfort
A job to regret- with
red anger welling up in her eyes.
Trees shaking
Madly wanting to bend
In passionate embrace of the sky
Black clouds reigning.
That girl there
She is as much of myself as i am her
She is a young salesman (too young)
Selling pink goods laced with purity.
I'd never give her away (take her now)
I'll always want her as my own (put her on a shelf)
I'll never deny her (she is myself)
She is a prostitute.
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Email: happy_melon_@hotmail.com
