shh, little whore.

hold onto the world as it falls around you
and wait for an ending that's never happy
before it all goes to hell.

there's music all around you-
thump, thump, thump-
and your head is spinning and
someone is grabbing your tits,
grinding to techno and teenage hormones,
lost in a sea of writhing, sweaty bodies.
he whispers in your ear,
words you can't hear, don't want to,
because that'd mean he's seduced you
and you're too broken to be wanted
like that anymore.
you grab his hand,
all bones and neon nail polish,
and trot to the door in cheap heels
and a barely there skirt.

but this isn't love.
this is real.
you kiss him under the moonlight
and you don't fall in love
because love means you care
and you forgot how to do that long ago.
his hand goes into your skirt
and you moan like the whore you are
because anything is better than
the icy hell he left you in with his
not-goodbye and mocking laughter.
up against the wall now,
panting in your ear, inside you,
with that buff bouncer watching
your B cups shine under the stars;
anything to forget the fell of his skin on yours.

even after he's done
and his cum runs down your thigh
you lean against the wall, silent,
the echoes of memory haunting.
you feel used, little whore,
and you're going to be-
sick.

people walk past you as you fall to the floor,
a sobbing mess of stolen dreams and failure,
because no one ever cares enough
and you allow yourself to really cry
in a puddle of your own vomit.
and this is who you are now,
disgusting little whore who fucks for free
and will never be anything.

who'd want you?

no one.
he didn't.

you sing yourself to sleep
and when you wake up,
the world is no brighter.
there are no second chances.

don't cry, whore.
no one wants to see your tears.