In the shoes of a prostitute

Tears roll down my cheeks, they fall on the bed, go unnoticed. Even when he is done do they go unnoticed. No one to see them, no one to wipe them off, no one to give a hug, a kiss on the forehead. But these are things about the past. Now I’m used to it. I’m used to the smell of guthka in his mouth and sweat under his armpits. I’m used to the look he gives me, as if he owns me, like I’m his. I’m used to the pain, which isn’t like pain anymore. I’m used to it all. I’ve made my peace with it, maybe because I leave my fragrance on his shirt. Maybe that’s the revenge I’ve learnt to take – successful or unsuccessful – that’s the strawberry perfume that doesn’t belong to his wife. 

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