Walking in the door,
The initial shock of meat,
The tender flesh of exposed breasts,
Those red and swollen arms undulating.
The girls in the window,
Illuminated in red,
Displayed like mannequins,
As if they are showing off purses to be sold.
But what are they selling?
They are selling their bodies,
Their dreams, their desires,
Their worth and their dignity.
And for what?
For incessant beatings,
For looks of hunger and greed
Coming from clients who just want that meat.
They have to serve them diligently,
Despite hunger, discomfort, pain.
Have to relinquish power over their own bodies,
Give over to these paying customers.
But who gets the money?
Not the girls, no, not them at all.
It goes to the pimps, to bribing the cops,
So that the brothel will forever stay in business.
Their eyes are haunted,
Their lips are shut,
Except for when they are forced open.
Their bodies convulse with the –
-pain, overcoming, overbearing,
Dominating every moment of their lives.
No hope for a day off,
For some moments of peace.
Every moment is a working one
In the red light district.