An Original Poem

Srey
I live in the land of blood red doors,
But I guess my life is not the worst.
It doesn’t hurt much anymore.

From the chipped white jug, today I pour
Warm water, so I wash my body first:
Ritual in the land of blood red doors.

Sometimes they would leave me on the floor,
In tears and bright purple where blood had burst.
It doesn’t hurt much anymore.

My cheeks used to burn at the dirty words I spit for
These men who smell of money and dirt.
Almost the color of the blood red doors.

But their callous hands can’t drown the word: Whore.
I still see my parents’ faces and that is the worst
Evil in the land of blood red doors.

But as I lay down alone, worn and sore,
I cannot say that I am cursed
To live in the land of blood red doors.
It doesn’t hurt much anymore.


C.E. Abshier