Wind in my neck, like
a limp doll that has lost it’s comeliness.
Straighten my skirt, and dust
off the grubby prints
left by the men that knew I had no money.
No money for the inhale. Even less for the exhale.
Comb my lashes, even on the one half open eye,
and redo the blush that hides
the blue on my cheek bones.
Yes, hide the blue.
No one likes a bruised face.
Wash the black off my fingers. Crack head’s
don’t make for a presentable date.
Paint my nails a pretty neutral shade,
to match your indifference.
You can pick me up now,
unless this is where you want me.
Yes. Hide the shame.