The girl with the painted face

You like the way I move, how I feel the beat in my blood, and you can’t help but think of things you’d do, if only you could.


And that’s the saddest part, you don’t see me as equal, you look at me with eyes like I’m a badly written sequel. I’m not the best seller, you don’t want to treat me with respect, you’ll say and do all you need, to see me get undressed. And then what? You’ll totally blow my mind? and brag to the boys about my firm behind?


Why should you view me different, I’m the girl with the painted face, an angel you just met, that you want to knock from grace.


You don’t care about my mind; and my deeper inner feelings, you just want to bounce on me, whilst I study the nothingness of your ceiling.


You’ll get from on top, and lay beside me in the nude, and when I reject your lousy kisses, you’ll mark me down as rude.


My once cherry lips, are stained across my cheeks, and my hair hangs limp and lifeless now, my self respect depletes.


You’ll notice me weeks later, and clearly know it’s me, but you’ll walk right past, like a man that cannot see.