Street Walker

She came dripping in golden ecstasy,
beneath the fly-ridden
fluorescents. 
With neat lines of snow brushed
carefully under her nose. 

She came lugging the barricade of
a bottle,
the same murky amber that coats
over grief with the sway of a hip. 
The kind that turns a tongue into a
dagger,
or day into night. 

She came with bruises scattered 
about her knee caps,
cherries dribbling past her chin,
and debris littering her hair. 

She came with all of these unspoken
sorrows, choked up in her throat like
a lump of greed. 
Constantly wandering the streets for
something she’d lost along the way.  

And you know what?
She was still a person,
One who’d lost themselves to a 
world on rotation of pain.

– BIATA

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