Do this long enough and you wise up, realizing you’re not as special as your pimps claim. There’s always another whore to walk your street, to work your corner and to lean in passenger windows asking your johns if they’re looking for a good time.

I took his hand. I took the plunge. I believed him when he said I was special. Even after he told me about all the others. Even after I worked the streets across from them, I still believe his lies. But when I came back after a short absence to find another skank standing on my curb, I couldn’t help but come to terms with my identity as just another piece of meat going bad on the grocery’s shelf.

I slapped. I screamed. I bit and tore, but there was no compensation for this old tired whore. What I gave, I gave for the money. There’s nothing left he owes me–at least nothing I can claim. This wasn’t worth my dignity. This wasn’t worth my shame.

Across town in the suburbs, I turn the key into my other tired existence. Here, they call me mommy, wife, bread winner and hero. Just other names for whore from a different breed of pimps. 


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