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Facing the town

I see plump, discontent little ladies marching forward to their own little dead end jobs; jobs with one perhaps, maybe two ends. But no more.

I do wonder if this was the plan. This body, that job, your addiction, I suppose the world just forgot your dreams.

A cloud of smoke engulfs you, it seems to caress your features and obviously it crowds your judgement. But if the drug, if the addiction keeps you sane who am I to judge? I’m just a peasant engulfed in your smokey embrace. A sad, quiet, passer-by just trying to survive one more day than you so I don’t face that body, that job and that addiction. However, I seem to be hurtling towards that future. I hope to any extra-terrestrial being that I’m not destined to lose this body I work hard for, this body I starved for, this body he seems to love. If something were to happen and I was to see my body grow, misshapen and round I’d be sad, I’d be me and another, on half the love I receive. I’d hurtle from there towards that job, selling young skin toxins, smiling at old women as they pay extra for a colour of lip that would return them to the days when they had someone to kiss, and, of course a job where I will have to look blankly and indifferently at men who will pay rock bottom prices for the future of some poor girl. Those poor girls will end up with a future like mine.

A future in a job like yours, a body like yours and an addiction like everyone.


Photo by freestockson Unsplash

Photo by freestockson Unsplash

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