Poor Young Whores

Poor Young Whores the neon hums like a tired god, and the sidewalk is cracked with old prayers. they stand there, lipstick smeared, legs like matchsticks ready to burn. men roll by in rusted dreams, stubble-faced, whiskey-breathed, fingering crumpled bills like confessions they'll never say. the girls laugh, high and hollow, but their eyes are tired tombstones, graves dug too early— they don't even know what's buried. someone calls them angels, but angels don't shiver in alleyways, don't trade their ribs for rent, don't die before the morning comes, the serial killer chats her up and she gets in the car, no one watches the news anymore.