The Fuckbox

When he lifted off my panties
And discarded them onto the floor
He remarked the scales on my back
And Yazin nodded, locking the door.
Then he was folding out my behind like a book,
Kneading in the flesh, sharp breaths he took,
Breaking the spine, and burying into me,
Seen like a foreign war not affecting him directly, yet still there,
But that’s what my job was.
Living in a Fuckbox.
I’d measured the lengths,
Widths of each wall in this room,
Like dicks, exact, 5 metres by 5,
It chaves the legs of being alive.
When I wasn’t being dosed up with my former self,
250 milligrams of “accept it bitch”,
And daily injections of “700 lira an hour”, I’d say it’s all the same,
Sit with my ass up,
But that’s what my job was.
Living in the Fuckbox.
And I hailed Mary about 40 times a day,
Cos Jesus bathed his halo in the desert for 40 days and 40 nights, like this Tom-cat bathes his hands in my tits
My poppa must be having a fit,
Knowing I take nine hits from a 40 year old homosexual’s cat o nine whip,
Tryna prove he’s not doing Allah any dismay, afterwards he’d sweat, do his Isha, 5th prayer of the day,
But that’s what my job was.
Living in the Fuckbox.
The lights loved me, lathered me in moonlight cream
And smoothed my battered sores on my mine field brain,
In and out of me, in and out of being in my dreams,
But I got used to my lips feeling smooth from worn cock,
And this time Marzio would look round,
Tell the 40 year old time’s up,
He’d break his stare on me, his grasp on me unlocked,
And in my earliest youth
I chased pink ponies made of candyfloss,
Painted rainbows, weaved my fingers together, wiggled them like waves on the sea,
Somehow the present brought me candyfloss lubes and LSD,
Knobbly knees and sadomasochists,
And glacé cherry lips,
But you know my job was all these things, living in a glove of goosebumps,
twitching veins, traffic of trafficked,
worn out dirty flip flops,
and of course, living in a Fuckbox.

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