The Tale of the Whore with a Dyed Hair
He dyes his hair. He dyed it white. White as the snow, But not as delicate as it White like the ash, Very frail like it. White as the stain, The stain they left in him When they’re beyond heaven Transcending to hell.
He dyes his hair red. He dyed it red. Red like his supple lips; Beaten, abused, battered. Red like the bruises, decorating his body. Found in him like stars, red constellations of lust. Teeth shaped marks in the neck, Crescent nail marks in the skin. Red as the blood, Dripping from the stained sheet Where a stained Adam lies. With his wrists cracked open, the entrance to the underworld. The Rape of Proserphine, the rape of this hopeless Adam. Red fluid blessing the cold floor like tears from a waterfall.
He’s full of life. He was. Now on the verge of permanent sleep, His eyes screaming pain, Bloodshot, bleak, blurry. His body yelling red tears. Used. Battered. Unappreciated. He closes his tired eyes and breathed, Deeply; Deeper than the gasping and moaning, And grunting and chants he usually hears. Deeper than the cut in his wrist. Soon there will be peace.
He dyes his hair. White. Red. He dyed his hair. To create a new person. To save the Black haired from being used. To save himself. But he failed.
And on his dying bed, The Whore with the dyed hair exhaled. And he’s never been this excited, This excited to sleep.
