Magdalene

I wait,
the sickness still in me,
because one of the men laying their hands on me has to be a healer.
The only cure for empty is to fill until full.
I am a vessel brimming with more of them than me.
Even wholesale, a broken heart does not sell well,
so I gave my soul away one soiled bed sheet at a time.
My letter is scarlet, like the shards of my heart.
I dare not think twice when I start to paint my red on yet another collar.

I wait,
pacing, attacking the linoleum
with too high heels I bought just for this purpose.
Seduction is an art, and the world's oldest profession.
This is not who I am, or an indication of where I've been.
I do not reek of last night's promiscuity,
or frequent clinics where D&C s are commonplace.
Most nights I sleep alone, collapsing in on myself,
unable to bear the weight of the night on my own.

I wait,
but I receive no calls, no timid knocks at my door.
The streets are not safe at night, and while I love a good game of chance,
the void inside me is not so painful as to risk what remaining virtue I have.
The constant barrage of intruders breaks me down,
and left alone for the first evening in weeks,
I hear the names they'd call me if they knew.
I am only paid in pain -
Regret has a half-life of eternity.