Paltry, trite sentiment
Faux hurt and pain
Superficial, artificial compassion
Feigned sadness and tears
You've got no fucking idea how this really feels
Just piss off back to your crypt
And leave me in peace
I should stop driving late at night.
Especially on country roads.
It’s becoming far too tempting not to press the foot brake.
And I’m not afraid of the darkness…
She remembers she is hungry. She shoves a hand inside the leg of her boot.
She finds herself in Blythswood Square. The shadowy figure approaches her, but she is not afraid. It’s the fourth one tonight.
‘Twenty quid with’ she replies, ‘Twenty five without’.
She leads him down the darkened alley. Still, she is not afraid. He won’t last. They never do.
She reaches for the tissues from her pocket and wipes between her legs. She drops them to the ground as she slides the twenty pound note down into her boot. She puts the fiver inside her bra.
She strides down to Queen Street Station and pays the fifty pence to use the loo. It feels good to wash the stains from her body.
She ambles back up towards Sauchiehall Street to her favourite take away. She eats two slices of pizza with extra jalapenos, hoping to burn the taste of the men from her throat.
She stands outside, smokes a cigarette, and wonders what to do. She trudges back towards Blythswood Square.
Just two more, she thinks. Two more and I can go home.