🌙 The Prostitute in New York 🌙
New York doesn’t shine for her.
It only flickers—
like a dying bulb in a hallway
no one walks through anymore.
She moves beneath the rain,
letting it wash the names
men have called her,
the ones that cling
stronger than perfume.
Her body is a map
of places she wishes
she could forget—
hotel rooms with peeling wallpaper,
sheets that smell like strangers,
mirrors that reflect a woman
she no longer recognizes.
Every night she tells herself,
just one more hour,
just one more customer,
just one more lie to survive.
But the streets listen
to the tremble in her breath.
Even the city,
so cruel and brilliant,
seems to turn away
from the ache in her eyes.
She keeps a photo in her coat—
a girl she used to be,
smiling beside a window
in a small, quiet home
where hope was still possible.
Sometimes she presses it
to her chest,
pretending her heart
still remembers how to beat
for something other than survival.
Men touch her,
but no one holds her.
They pay for her body,
but no one pays
for the pieces of her soul
that fall away each night
onto cold sidewalks.
And when dawn stains the sky
a pale, exhausted blue,
she whispers to the city:
“If anyone cares…
I am still here.”
But the sun rises
without answering,
and New York remains
a cathedral of loneliness—
where she kneels,
night after night,
praying for a salvation
that never comes.
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