News reports that I’m trafficked,
my heart denotes that it’s racketed.
Street owns me, prostrates.
Bends me to knees,
for money that touches my hand
but never reaches my pocket.
Fettered and tethered in invisible chains,
puts me on display. Never to be seen.
Wanted to be a teacher,
daydreamed my nights in books.
Now waits for a sandwich from the preacher,
while reading street signs
and the promise on cig’ packs.
Mom hooked on crack and reefer
allowed uncle to become my creeper.
In a haze, turned her gaze.
Easy prey, that’s what I was. Home?
Not enough love to lift me above,
the grip of a pimp.
Need to escape.
Shooting up liquid heaven,
can’t make the evade.
Arms marked in lines;
My scars of dying to live.
I’m a commodity—an item. A purchase.
Change it! No demand, no supply needed.
But, the Johns drive by.
Buy my time and my pain is your crime.