Night Shift

Stuffed smell inside the room like the oven room in a baker's shop. Creaky rusty folding bed, nearly damp room, translucent curtains drawn over the small window that overlooks the narrow street of this wide and vast city. Weak voice, body aches and streches, messed up unfolded clothes pushed into a corner. Small decorative lights on the ceiling and around the mirror pasted on the wall with brown tape.

Sleepy eyes and weary minds. The nights have taken a toll on this body. Its not easy to break the nature's rhythm of sleep and work every night. But with continued efforts, perhaps the effects can be delayed with small consequences accumulated over a long time. The nights end in a tired body but it feels like a fest all along. Out shining the festival of lights with the decorations all around. Suppressing and satisfying the needs of men like how Godess does it in those grand festivals...

Men who spent their energy all day on work spend themselves on us, not just once not just twice, but every night. The mornings tend to be quiet unlike the hustle gained by the city to work all day. The street if visited will greet you with silence except for the occasional chirps of small birds. We earn our nights and mornings are the times we lay our bodies to let go of the lust men have shredded on us.

We are all but imperfect humans. The men so strong and masculine lose themselves all over bodies. The well dressed masculinity armored in shining pride and dominance, all stripped over the naked body of a woman. The men so loud and strong turns to grunts and moans as they push their pride in us. We have seen the real animals in men, not the lions, stallions and tigers poets and writers talk about. The animals, so vulnerable and insecure residing in men that each whimper you miss on their plammer hammers their pride to dust bit by bit. The lust in the eyes turns to pride burying it in the shallow soul of these men. Every man takes his time but ultimately ends the same.

Ironically, we are the unnamed. The ones who are looked upon with disgust rather than the men who spend nights here. We are the visible victims of the predetors who hide themselves in classes of society. Politicians, criminals, businessmen, workers and people all around.

We are the ones whom you don't talk about. We are the sex workers.