Her hands are made of sandpaper, and her eyes they look like fear;
And the fragility of her porcelain heart is a sign that death is near.
The demons in the form of thought pick apart her empty mind.
They leave her on the roadside, where she is left, deaf, dumb and blind.
Screaming for redemption from her swollen, dry, cracked lips;
In an act of desperation, she starts to sway her paper hips.
With only one thing left to give, she has nothing left to lose;
She raffles off her body for feeble cash and sketchy *****.
And the wrinkles on her face are tiny riverbeds for tears;
Urban camouflage of leather skin and dried up makeup smears.
A poem about a ******* I saw while in Toronto.