Prostitute

Prostitute

My smile, the excessive make-up that covers my face. I hide behind it.
My humour, the mini-skirt revealing just what they want to see. Just enough so that they’re hooked, but no more. They cannot see my orange-peel ***.
My wit, high-heels allowing me to look down on them, while they stare oblivious and in awe.
My eyes, my sex. A warm, caring, gentle flame flickering in the distance hiding the fuelling combustion exploding behind. I don’t cry. Tears flow within me.
They don’t know.
I smile. I look. I sell.
Their laugh, my payment.
I’ll get a real job soon. But not yet.