Prostitute

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Parisha Dutta:

She wears a torn cloth in the room closed tight,

And glittery green frocks with heels six inches high.

Fakes her smile with the lipstick coloured brown,

Whenever she goes out with eyes always down.

Auctioned body, her soul means nothing,

Whenever owned, she was owned as a thing.

Different faces, every night and day;

All colours in her life are turned to grey.

All she needs to learn how to dance with pole;

These creepy living men just need the hole.

A deny one day could choke her throat,

How could she refuse, with money she was brought.

Eleven years old, her body started bleeding;

It wasn’t natural, it was a man penetrating.

Several slaps, her skin seems leather;

No-one has to carress, long gone her mother.

Makeups everyday, she is tired of perfumes;

Cries her heart out when she watches caring grooms.

But her life is a waste, no books, no love;

Forced to be touched in the bed and the clubs.

Haunted with AIDS and HIV as well;

The pain in her body sends her to hell.

But they continue, the greed never stops;

Dreams to flee and survival she hopes.

And when she realized she can’t escape but stay;

Convinces herself saying, “I save rapes everyday.”

Reproduced with permission from Parisha Writes

About Parisha: 

Parisha Dutta is a rising writer, poet and blogger. She is of Bengali origin and currently resides in Guwahati, Assam, India. She would like to pursue a literary career as a poet and a writer. Her aim is to become a passionate writer and presently she is trying and working on lyrics and sonets.

 

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