I am Persephone; queen of the cursed and the ******, bogged down by chains made of greed and desperation. My value lies on a stained mattress; my worth measured by the broken fingernails left on the skin of my paychecks, fragments of myself given for an hour of their pleasure. I know nothing but chapped lips and blissful vacancy, outstretched hands met with violence. I am no longer a spring flower; wilted beyond recognition, I am better suited for examination under glass than I ever was for life in damp alleys. But for all my inadequacies, there are three things for which I'm certain: there's a price to pay for naivety, innocence is a lie, and we're not all created equal. A pretty face is worth its weight in gold; sold to the highest bidder, there's no room for integrity when wolves are nipping at your heels. hard years have taught me this: silver spoons nourish the undeserving and even the virtuous come with a price tag. We are all marred by what we do to get by, and ideas mean nothing if wrapped in the skin of a *****. And it makes me wonder; which one weighs more, a pound of flesh, or a pound of promise.