Bodies sold at a retail price
To hearts which are colder than ice
She sold her soul and pride for money
While inside she was dying alone and empty
Beaten and bruised badly
She took every slap boldly
when it came to scars
She had one too many

She a victim of her insecurity
He an addict addicted to ****** gratification
*** driven with no particular destination
At home he had a wife who lost her passion
So prostitutes became his substitution
Seeking them in the day, seeking them at night
Just so he could fill that empty spot

***** at a young age,
so she fornicated with rage
Anger in her eyes
fear in her heart
pain on her mind
Numb to pleasure
she only smiled when she saw dollars
Wore dog collars
as man acted like they owned her

A property for hire between her legs
Men would love her and touch her, hurt and destroy her, abuse her and mistreat her and no one would defend her

To her love and pain all felt the same

He tells me that I’m beautiful.
That I’m good at what I do.
He tells me that I’m worth every cent while the clock ticks to two.
The mattress is up against the window.
The door is locked x3.
I sit and watch as the smoke floats and drifts around me.
I use my magic words.
And I do my hair just right.
I’ll make a bunch of money if I can make it through the night.
The drugs make it bearable.
So my body hardly feels.
This is my reality now. This is what is real.
Makeup painted on my face
And Fishnets up my thighs.
I tell him that I need him, right to his buggin eyes.
His pipe and rock are on the floor.
So I watch where I walk.
When he gets it in his system I can hardly even talk.
The paranoia eats his mind
As the clock ticks to 4.
He locks us in the bathroom, so no one can see us anymore.
The last of his drugs are gone
As the hour comes to 5
He tells me that I’m beautiful. That I make him feel alive.
He drops me off at home
And thanks me for what I’ve done.
“Last night was great.” He says with a smile,
“I Can’t wait for the next one!”

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