Sipping Tea at a Brothel

He pays. He leaves. And she bleeds quietly. Some come for release, others for control. Some come to forget. Some to remember. Some to be punished. Some just come because it’s cheap. It's sin. It’s not sin. It’s survival. It’s escape. It’s addiction. It’s barter. It's bargain. It's need. It’s ritual. Here, bodies are commodities. Sold by the hour. Measured by the weight, age and colour of the skin, freshness of smile, limpness of resistance. It is commercialisation of desire wrapped in lace, sold in whispers, shared in commissions, paid in bribes, cashed in tips. She lets strangers from the corridor of silence enter in the dark... Screeching beds, sweat, blood and tears - at times between pain, pleasure and numbness... He comes. He goes. But the scent lingers around like emptiness. The curtain falls, when the last man zips, And I lay my teacup after that last sip...