Literature
The Harlot Next Door
She's only pretty from angles a and b.
She's not company, she's an empty shell.
If you tell her she's worth something,
She'll name a price, or fee,
But usually gives it up for free.
Always talks about wanting something more,
But closes every door, those good men open for her.
Her way out, is in her bloodstream.
Her half-lidded eyes and vacant dreams,
Riding on the edge of the blade she cuts her coke with.
Yeah that's her really living.
Really living, and really dying.
She sinks into the floor as each breath escapes,
Where gravity forces her flat, into nothing.
It suits her, because she's nothing,
Has been for a long time.