They'll tell you that the big bad boys of hip hop and rap are sitting around writing songs for their little girls and crying

And you'll try to remember what it felt like to cry

And then you'll text back $100 for an hour, $55 for 30 minutes, and $30 for 15, hoping that he won't respond and praying that he will

And then you'll ask him what he wants you to wear
And you'll meet him in dim parking lots, beaten up cars, and then the home he shares with his wife and kids

He'll tell you, "you're too **** pretty to be doing this" in between telling you how amazing you are

And you'll wonder if being pretty means you shouldn't need the cash

And when the timer rings, he'll leave cash on the bedside table, telling you he'll text you when he's ready for another ****

And one day he'll ask you how you do it: how you break up families, how you lie to your friends, how you have *** in the bed you sleep in every night, where you have nightmares about loosing everyone you love

And maybe you'll laugh, or sigh, but you will not cry like the sad fathers loving their little girls because you are harder than diamonds

And the world will tell you that you sparkle