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C-HARLOT-TE

The shard of glass lay on the shelf
Shining ruby red, all by itself
The jagged edge gleamed, to me
It seemed, teasing maliciously.
Like a child with his crimson paint
Streaking the canvas without restraint
Like a butcher looking down at his palm
At the scarlet with an acquired calm
She looked down at the pool of red
Slowly forming beside her bed
And in it she could see
Things that made her sad with grief
Her life at the slowest pace
Flashed before her grimaced face
She would have wept but her tears were dry
The bitter wetness she was denied
Her fingers searched the unfamiliar face
The slightest brush set it ablaze
She traced the unseen scars, until
Her features froze, deathly still
A gasp left her parted lips
The soft skin that had never been kissed
Her body shook with filthy grace
Her only tool of sexual trace
Then the life left her, like
A wounded soldier, giving up the fight.