A poem by Melpomene written long ago.
I feel his warmth
and snuggle close
without a moment's care
of who he is,
this nameless man,
alseep upon my bed.
I met him in a coffee shop,
this man I lay beside,
and took him home
to stay a while
and warm my lonely night.
He's not the first,
nor will he be
my last attempt at peace;
my need of warmth
outweighs my sense
of all the tragedies
which could occur
through careless nights
filled up with need, as these.
I know the names
my kind is called,
grafittied on the wall -
the slut or whore
or tasteless bitch
proclaim the bathroom stalls.
I might be so
and might be more
than those cheap writings cry,
I will not try
to hide the truth
which calls out in my mind
that life must hold
a special cell
for women such as I.
But all it is
is solitude
and lonely nights so long
they stretch forever
and will not end
until all else is gone.
When life is thus
I cease to care
and only feel the need
to sleep beside
a soft, warm form
and find my dark reprieve.