the broken whore and the outlaw

a broken whore sat alone on a dry, sun-bleached bench. bare-assed, her calloused cheeks slid along the prickly wood-the tree launching splinter after splinter into her thick skin. as blood tears stream down her face she says, “serves me right- can’t make any real money sitting down anyway.” she wanders the desert roads bruised, tattered, dirty. dusty. filthy both inside and out. you can feel her personal brand of darkness throughout her energy. it envelopes the air, leaving a thick vile smell—leaving little room to breathe. and yet she continues to feign confidence. she continues to maintain perceived posture.

the outlaw, a predator who spotted this whore in the distance, raised his shotgun. and as he stared at her devastating condition through the barrel, he swiftly took her out of her misery. one shot to the back and she fell to her knees.

as her spirit traveled down below, he breathed— and it felt like his very first breath since birth.