She walks these streets like a ghost. Her eyes are vacant and her voice flat and lifeless. She reminds me of someone I used to be. Everything about her appearance is provocative. From the bleached blonde hair to the tattoos mimicking lingerie up her legs. Physically she is a beauty. Yet the lifelessness makes her appearance somewhat comical, like a caricature of a person. She sells her body for drugs. Drugs to block out the mad pain of her existence. She is the walking wounded, the used up and exploited, betrayed so often, so viciously, that all she knows is to victimize herself again.
I feel a great sadness wash over me each time I pass her, but I am no good to her. I am not part of the humiliating transaction. I do not factor into her awareness. Driven by instinct and trauma to act out over and over again. What could I say?
You are real. I see you and your suffering. She’d never understand.
Sometimes she forgets to put underwear on and just walks looking for her next oppressor all the while mistaking her vulnerability as a kind of power. Beyond the level of consciousness swept up in a dark nightmare. Not knowing she’s asleep