Sipping Tea at a Brothel

He pays.

He leaves.

And she bleeds quietly.

Some come for release,

others for control.

Some come to forget.

Some to remember.

Some to be punished.

Some just come because it’s cheap.

It's sin.

It’s not sin.

It’s survival.

It’s escape.

It’s addiction.

It’s barter.

It's bargain.

It's need.

It’s ritual.

Here, bodies are commodities.

Sold by the hour.

Measured by the weight, age and skin tone,

freshness of smile,

limpness of resistance.

It is commercialisation of desire

wrapped in lace,

sold in whispers,

shared in commissions, 

paid in bribes,

cashed in tips.

She lets strangers 

from the corridor of silence 

enter in the dark...

Screeching beds, 

sweat,

blood and tears - at times

between pain, pleasure and numbness... 

He comes. He goes.

But the scent lingers around like emptiness. 

The curtain falls, when the last man zips,

And I lay my teacup after that last sip...