What She Really Sells

Not sad, not angry, never surprised, Not even filled full of spite, Every day passes like a silent new moon, Quietly through the whole night, As her life walks along the treadmill of time, Through a blank day like before, Wanting to feel happy, fear, joy or disgust, Wanting her feelings restored, But she’s bound to this ride of emotional dead, An empty, scratched, broken suit case, Waiting to feel anything again, To have emotions restored to her face, Because her whole world is a day on the job, Her bed, her work, and her ride, Where she sells who she is to whoever will pay, Even though her emotions have died.