Bansheeland, day unknown
When I arrive in your town, I ask people around where the street is where all hookers gather at night. I put on my shortest skirt, over-the-knee boots, slutty makeup, and too much of sweet perfume. My shadow looks like an alien, and so does my soul feel in the strange town full of lit windows none of which will ever be my home.
As you pass me by, looking in disgust at us priestesses of night gods, I’ll flash my body to you and shout out “Look, Sir! This body was only good for the love of money, since your love didn’t want it, this “project”, this slave, your amusing silly little pet!”
You don’t recognize me and can’t make out what it is I’m saying because of noises of a passing motorcycle and whores’ chatter. So you just give the scene an empty look with a hint of disappointment and disappear in fumes of a 24/7 pizzeria, turning your back at me yet again. Your cigarette’s smoke cringes, forced to mix with the steam of fried junk food, just to rise high and free like an angel’s breath, on the other side of this sinful crossing.
A drunk client that night will say he loves me and wants to marry me, while sucking on my ring finger. My laughing and his wailing in the still of the brutal night will make rats’ blood freeze in those little veins.
The next morning you will hear rumors that some hooker was found strangled. Everyone will think, oh well… happens all the time, under the stars whose light is so bright and yet so cold.