The palms of your hands

Cracked, from the night

Curled upwards

Away from the cold concrete

That did little to comfort you

After a night,

Where you just couldn’t

Find your way home

There’s blood running from

Well, you’re not sure

But it hurts

And the sun is rising now

And you don’t know where it is that

Your body lies

But you know it’s cold

And it’s not home

Why you spend your nights

Claimed, by others

Who will pay

To leer over your body

Is something you no longer know

And you’re not sure

You can remember

Where your home is

You drag yourself up

Wipe, the tears off

Your lost face

No one will fuck a whore who

Takes it all too seriously

You must be clean

To spend your time in

Another’s home


About Greg Moss

25 year old English and Media Graduate based in Manchester, UK. Contact me at:
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7 Responses to Roxanne

  1. Heartafire says:

    I find this very poignant, this tour of reality for so many entrapped by poverty, addiction, can’t find or don’t want to find the door. Fine writing.

    Liked by 2 people

  2. Shannon says:

    …and who is clean enough?


  3. storitellah says:

    The last five lines summed everything up. I like.


  4. Oh my God… This is hard hitting. You are very talented. Keep writing!


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