The corner of every strange eye searches
From your black hoodie that’s gradually losing its shape
To the finger wearing only chipped nail polish.
They’re wondering to themselves if the condom broke.
Did that stupid boy tell you that he’d pull out?
And did he leave you once he found out?
They’ll never wonder if
He kissed you so tenderly it made you cry
Or if you finally tasted safety tangled in his arms.
They’ll never wonder if
You notice every judgement, every glance
Or if you cry in the dark staring at the ceiling-stars.
I wonder if the Holy Tramp hears your silent prayers
And if she helps to mend those tired tears.
After all this time can she still recall what it was like
To be more slut than saint?
History misplaced the words, but how could she ever
Forget the hurled slurs before they called her blessed.
Filed under: Poetry
