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Beautiful Harlot.
When you vomit into the toilet and there is no one there, the vomit ends up in your hair. Your hands end up shaking and your makeup gets smeared. Your nose starts to run and the blood stains your lips. You have to drop the cocaine. Your eyes lose their color. They are hollow and dull. No one wants to love you when you're a junkie.
You can hardly afford that apartment on the parkway. All of the rich people in your building scowl. Look at that little harlot. Look at her beautiful skull. Wouldn't it look better if it were blown across the mirror? With the blood running and making intricate patterns. Mr. Pierce came to your apartment tonight. He brought his silenced firearm, ready to cause harm.
You're beautiful, sprawled out in the bathroom. Your skirt wide open. Showing your cunt to everyone. They look, they look, they all want to ruin you.
You're dead. Never breathing again. Mr. Pierce has his way with your corpse. You don't cry.
His wife never questions why he smells like cheap whiskey and Dior perfume.
She just straightens her pearls. Smiling in the mirror. "He's going to think I look beautiful."
She doesn't know he
Only gets thrills from
Drunken dead girls.
I really like how you describe things. Oh, and I used to write poems during class when I was in high school too. Some people don't understand that as writers daily life seems boring to us because our eyes see deeper than souls.