Going in Raw

She speed dates with drug dealers—

and that one callous ingrate

They all had her—eight straight.

They loathed her as a squealer.

she should have been a throat goat

rather than allowing the boys to go in raw.

Her skin looks like a public restroom wall—

inked up, graffiti-covered in a single stall.

On the seedier side of the city,

the hood is ruled by the poverty porn committee.

Owned by the streets and those that own the streets,

she is misplaced amid the dispassionate defeats.

Even after her first two boys were repo’d,

here she is again—belly about to explode.

It feels like fiction, but it is nonfiction—

the baby is near its dawning eviction.

Baby, just a tourist in this person’s life of strife—

drama and trauma, and slumming, she’s no one’s wife.

Another human life deposed, think of the waste.