The Wondrous Slut

You call her a slut, you call her a whore,
but that's all that you see and nothing more.
For, within every woman, slut or not lies a small butterfly,
waiting for the colours on her wings to show out
as beautiful as it is, while you just see a garish display
because that is all that your eyes can see.
Within every woman lies a mother, the most loving one in the world.
Sluts and prostitutes as you see or tag,
also gives out her blood to feed her baby as milk through breasts,
whose suppleness is all that you notice.
I see the mother. You see the slut.
I wonder at the ease with which words flow from your mouth
as your eyes trace the figure of a woman in the clothes of her choice
and the words of her own independence, may you be a man or woman.
Do you care to see the insecure little girl who misses her father's hug
or the flutters of the twenty year old she is as the secret glances of boys
follow the wind raising her nervousness?
You see a woman, a slut, a woebegone creature with blood between her legs as a knowledge
and smirk with disgust, twisting your face.
Ever thought about that small bloody pouch she is imbibed with,
waiting to carry a being far beyond her capacity, someone who could get her killed,
yet love it before it even reaches this planet that is one in a million.
You see women on the road, in the mall and on your front porch
seeking explanations for your stares for being who she is;
and all you can say is this : "Damn the freaking whore."
How long before you realize a whore you call is a woman too?
With flesh, bones, breasts and all that define her physically;
with a heart, a womb, some laughter and tears many unseen.
That, she rules her life and loves herself
more than the right which you assume to judge her
by the hip that moves as she walks on the stilettos in a manner befitting her or not.
She may leave her hair loose for the winds to play between the fibrous cracks,
she will raise her voice if you hurtle words that don't belong to her on her face;
She will not care about your useless existence if you are one.
And if all this makes her a whore, a slut.
A slut she is.
A wondrous one.

Hemu 

The Roadside Whore

I had never seen such a man before, 

in all epitome of his handsomeness, and a smile that washed ashore worries.

I called forth to him, while he stood at the end of the street, 

by the lamp post crossing his legs and staring at me. 

My rouge grew redder, like I've never felt before,

I set my hair, smoothening my curls looking at the man. 

Not knowing if a second call would be needed,

So, I just stood watching his body, naked behind the clothes I shed from my vision. 

He looked like a man of word, more than flesh,

as I hoped what he would be, in all his being. 

He would be different I hoped, a writer perhaps, 

documenting miseries and glees. 

Perhaps, he'll understand my pleasure at seeing a man like him, 

a man in that black suit pressed to the last crease now invisible. 

As my thoughts grew, he walked towards me, 

holding a smile that kindled my inner soul.

What if he was the one? What is this was it ?

I held my breath as I walked with him as he slipped his arm around my shoulders, 

unlike the other men who walked away from me, 

only meeting me in a cramped place so desolate. 

Probably he is, oh, he is. 

We walked somewhere, I don't know where, a man with me, 

who didn't throw me dirty looks, looked at me as a woman. 

Like a person who knows what femininity means. 

Into his room, I waited for him to say something.

Yet, there were no words.

He tore my blouse down to mere shreds of cloth, 

releasing himself from the stiff clothes.

Raw feelings grew as we hit the bed, him biting away at my flesh, 

full of meaning. Everything he did, was a feeling 

I had never felt before in my life. 

Our bodies locked, the world faded as I gave myself to him in a way 

I never gave myself to anyone else. 

More than mere flesh, more the lips to tear open. Something beyond.

Something special. Something like him. 

Hours passed and the rage subsided as he slid out of the bed, 

bereft of a blanket around us, there is nothing to hide. Nothing to conceal. 

Fumbling into his pants, he looked at me through the dim light.. dressing back to what he was. 

He stabbed into his pockets bringing out some pieces of highlighted papers. 

And kept them in front of me. 

I stared up in shock and nodded, acknowledging the pay. 

He pulled his coat over and adjusting his tie, 

just like before, dressing in perfection, just like the 'perfect sex' he just gave me. 

Only now, there were creases on his coats, that stood out laughing at my face. 

Laughing at my crumpled hopes.

He turned and walked away without a second glance, 

as I sat naked, my face down in disappointment. 

But I won't cry, I won't lament.
For I've seen more than this. 

I'm the roadside whore, calling out to you, 

I, who fake groans and moans in bed. 

I, who still search for miracles everyday.

Waiting for it to hit my bed before another man does. 

For, I'm the roadside whore calling out to you.  

I shall live. I shall fight. 

For, I'm the roadside whore calling out to you.