Fear. Sadness. Beauty. Maybe it’s true that beauty and sadness go together because somehow nature thought beauty too rich to go forth upon the earth without a meet along. And fear, the compulsion of my daily recipe of pain. And I hate I grew this beautiful. Or possibly that I’m so obnoxious, my feelings ferocious. Yet as a progenitor at sixteen, I know the difference between six and nine. And angle 6-9.
Why am I always cleaning up wounds?
Random thoughts cascade through my mind—dozens of men I have satisfied, ceilings I have stared at for hours in the dark, and … the fear of having children. At sixteen, a breadwinner. Sorry, it’s a lie that I actually win bread for eight siblings back at home plus a lame mother who can no longer beg at the traffic, courtesy of crisis of Covid-19. In fact, we watch bread in adverts, and jam when we push dear mum when the traffic lights turn red. Red is like our glimmer of hope. Red, the dark-stained dress when I resolved to sell my innocence as an only solution. Red, when I stuck my legs high, I let him in. Suddenly, his body arched, rough and hard. I asked for a pillow beneath, but he was pale, maybe dark. He didn’t move. Immediately, warm liquid trickled down my thighs. Thicker liquid, only at sweet sixteen I was sure it wasn’t cum. Maybe blood, red!
Whoever pierced a knife on that man’s stomach made it pure and clean. Too clean to have only my DNA planted on his skin. And I was never going behind bars for a crime I didn’t commit. Prostitution, yes. Cold murder, I didn’t even have a reason to. But that was two months ago, before I made my exile.
I’m thankful for the darkness outside that conceals the stupid ass grin on my face. It should be my last day in this mess. Not because I’ve had enough, only that, there’s this unborn in me that keep pushing and pushing for its rights to privacy without cruel invasion. Or it is dreading my piercing moans. And this mistake befell me on the evening when I last had the corpse on me. Pain.
I hate to ignore the knife that has been lodged in my chest.
There are fewer men today. I hope I get enough to send back home, or to plan for the future with my swelling belly. Fierce lightning appear in the once calm sky, clouds obeying to the call with rumbling rechoing each roar. And yet I love the rain. Even with the crisp air ripping my almost nude skin to pieces, somehow rain is like a cloud falling apart. And it feels good to know that I’m not the only one that falls apart. Even nature shatters.
There appeared a random guy. First, he detects, then he elects. It’s me he’s going eject. And my job is to make him erect. Good enough, I’m more of a reject.
Closer, I see exactly what I’d feared, what I dreamt about for months. My spirit stiffens, like it is going to evaporate out of me. First, he takes my wrist, I stop. He’s the guy that had the blade two months ago. I can’t be wrong. Closer. I keep my head down, my breath falling in sheets of cold air towards my feet. Yet closer. My eyes become his wars. He’s everywhere in my combating thoughts. His face, old charming, only smeared with affection. I open my mouth to speak and my lips are dead. And it is him I’m pregnant for. I know him as the man that neglected his family for crime. As a man the sixteen year old girl performs for his responsibility. As the man that loves tricks to arousal. Seduction, and he pays a good sum of money when you take him raw. I know him as the reason to my scars and his presence before me feels like it is piercing my wounds. As memories eat me through and through, finally I manage to speak: “Daddy, don’t!”
You can’t jump to the stars when your feet hurt, I rather you first try my shoes.