For Sale

When the search for love feels like modern day prostitution.

For Sale

For Sale

Even the sweetest of touch, feels like fire.

Desire coupled with her sign, girlfriend for hire,

She renders herself a sophisticated prostitute.

Business suit attire, but a corner store model far past retirement,

She meant to find love.

But the green of currency wasn’t enough to ripple the current of love of which she feigned so she settled for the green of paper that quickly shifted to the green shavings

Because obtaining cannabis is easier than the love that I am craving

Can someone tell me?

Where is this love for sale?

I’ve given all I have left and in my profitless pursuit,

The love that I can not buy has been snatched by every man I’ve ever gone to bed with

And I just can’t seem to stand it.

I need this love that is for sale.

You see my money wasn’t enough and my body has me stuck with chuck and with tuck and it's sucked the very life outta me.

My heart can’t even stand it.

It's shifted from its fleshly entity to a piece of stone incapable of beating.

My emotions are so detached that the very snatching of my life barely raises an eyebrow.

So I bow to the concept: “It is what it is”

Because love is like a blanket to a scared little kid.

It has physical assurance, with no substance at its purest.

Even a wish for an un-flawed love seems foolish.

I need this love that is for sale.

When there's no money left, and my body has been ran through,

What else is there for me to do?

When there’s no relationship to run into or haters to prove wrong,

She faces the mirror singing the same ole song of a painful love and heartbreak that can’t seem to be undone.

I need this love that is for sale.

I face the directionality problem of love.

Because my perception of you has been skewed by a substitute by the name of ole dude.

Never the other way around where your love is used as a measuring tool.

Knowing that your very name is love, I still begin to hate you.

As if you’re the remnants of a broken relationship ended too soon,

And not the very foundation that I daily uproot like some lie of my youth.

You, my love, are the very essence of what my money can’t buy, but that my heart desires.

For your desire to fulfill my desire is far more dire than the self-inspired, life expiring routines of my suicided identity.

You, my God, preserve me.

In a way that isn’t contingent on whether I give you my body or not.

In a way that isn’t contingent on whether I’m willing to give you everything that I’ve got.

But, you, my God, love me contingent upon nothing I could ever offer you.

For you love me contingent only upon how you feel for me.

A way that does not shift like the boyfriends I shift week to week.

You, my God, preserve me.

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Shaterrica Sampson
Shaterrica Sampson
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