a poem by Jenna Humphrey (2 of 2)

whore

i am alone in my room, i am picking sores
i do not know the reason to live or not to live
There is dull sleeping and there is
sleeping wakefulness
touch a callus
thud and nothing
want to scream infomercial clichés
until you understand that you love me
want to pay installments of $something.95
pull my pants down
thrust, come, wrap me in garbage
i am a pop song from the throat of a cockroach
will touch you with dirty hands until you are also
of smut or forgetting
i burned my memory on a porcelain throne,
every shit that I take is my first and
i am rich.

© by Jenna Humphrey

 
Gutter Eloquence Magazine ~ Issue #6 ~ November 2009    previous poem