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Damaged Girl
Sweet child, who out of helpless fury burst from a
Crumbling haven and into the arms of the street-corner pimp,
Your gaunt face and deep dark eyes tunnel into me
From the glossy pages of Rolling Stone magazine.
And I wake up in a cold sweat in the middle of some god-awful
Night, haunted by the why's and how's. Why? --
Was it the way he held you? The way he pulled you close
To his body, whispering promises of a real and constant love?

I see you sweating in some battered motel room
Slapping warm flesh against the course hair of a putrid chest,
A stranger's skin and foul breath and cheap cologne.
I see you burrowing into the cold concrete corner of
An urban nightmare, pulling a dime-store coat over your
Sallow skin, desperately edging out the winter night's wind,
Muffling the muted cries of an unquiet mind.

I see the cops finding your twisted body dumped in the city park,
Your nakedness clothed only by a necklace of bruises. "Strangled,"
They said. Sliced and beaten, damaged and discarded, a dried
Blood stain on asphalt, a chalk-lined obstacle for dead-eyed
City dwellers to casually walk around on their way to work.