She closes her eyes and tells herself that this isn’t happening.
She bites her lips so she won’t scream because she knows that will only earn her a beating. And then there’s no eatin’ because she didn’t make that money.
“It’s strictly business, baby” her pimp tells her. And she’s the merchandise.
Nights spent on the corner; days spent nursing bruises that her man gave her cuz she didn’t lay on her back enough; didn’t get on her knees enough; didn’t please enough.
Babies conceived in anonymity; aborted in brutality.
“Ain’t no time to be a mama while you working my streets,” that hateful man says as he beats the newest one out of her.
Emotions and feelings fade.
Emotions are a weakness…hers are callused over.
She’s no longer the scared girl.
She’s the whore, the lady of the night, the street walker he wants her to be.
She’s the thoroughbred in his stable of mares.
And now—even to her—it’s “Strictly Business”
(Originally posted 3/15/09)