The whore was five. Her mom stayed in bed and cried while
her daddy lived in a different house with a different momma in his bed every
night. Some of those momma’s had crooked teeth, others never smiled. Not at the
whore, anyway. Some pinched her cheeks and played with her hair. They called
her cute and told her things ears that little never should hear.
The whore was seven when the man in the ice cream truck told
her about cherry pie. He told her he liked it when she wore those sweet little
skirts with no leggings on underneath. The man asked her if she wanted to trade
a little bit of cherry pie for all the ice cream she could eat. Something sweet
for something sweet. A secret sealed with sprinkles and chocolate sauce. A
secret with a little piece of cherry.
Twelve. The whore was twelve when she thought she found love.
It chased her at recess and pinched her in the hall. Love giggled with the
sound of innocence and the prospect of playing doctor. Love tickled her thighs
and examined the two little bumps that she was told to keep hidden beneath her
shirt. Love played doctor behind the wooden jungle gym with no panties on. The
doctor couldn’t fix anything, and the whore was broken by love.
She was fifteen. At fifteen the whore met a boy. It was the
lunch table and they were at school. His lips were pink and he asked her if she
was too. Friends were few, and the whore liked the attention. His words were sweet
like ice cream, and his teeth only a little bit crooked. Broken hearts were
meant for fixing, he had said, although she wasn’t sure hers had been broken.
He didn’t claim to be a doctor, but he told her for certain that it wouldn’t hurt.
The whore said no, but pink lips came with strong hands. Teeth bit at those
bumps she was told to keep hidden beneath her shirt. Nothing tickled her
thighs. It turns out he lied, it really does hurt. And then he spit between his
pink lips. He called her a liar and swore about cherries because hers never
popped.
Eighteen and she was a whore. Broken hearts were meant to be
fixed. She was no doctor, but she knew she was sweet, and a something sweet
makes everything better. Everyone likes something sweet. There were boys. One,
two, and three. Their words like chocolate sauce and sprinkles, although delicious,
never really made her smile. They liked her quiet. They played doctor while she
played love. Thighs, teeth, and those two little bumps, bigger and with more
force. She opened her legs and kept her mouth shut. Puzzle pieces are what
broken hearts become. They fit together—the whore and boys one, two, and three.
Sometimes when she let them, and sometimes when she didn’t. The bottle would
make it better, they said. It was the glue that put them together, they said.
They were not doctors, but the bottle and those pills would help them fit together.
Broken hearts are pieces of a puzzle, and broken hearts were meant for fixing.
She swallowed.
The whore was twenty-two when a boy came and never left.
They always left after they came. He didn’t tell her she was sweet, but he did
call her by name. In her sleep he whispered I love you, but sleep was never
something she did well. Friends were few and she liked the attention. There was
no more two or three, only one. His lips weren’t pink, but neither was she, not
any more, the whore. Broken hearts couldn’t be fixed, not when they were
missing pieces he had said. He promised to give her part of his. Something sweet
for someone sweet. And so he did. But pieces come with a price, like ice cream
and sprinkles from a truck. The whore did what she knew best. Kept her mouth
shut. She went through the motions and learned to play house. Because crying
moms behind closed doors, and daddies who lived in different houses weren’t really
how it was meant to be played. So he took her to church and taught her to live
because despite all of her questions she could be saved.
The whore was twenty-six. The boy that came and never left
played doctor and house with her still. Broken hearts were meant for fixing and
she still had that piece of his, but broken hearts are like puzzle pieces and puzzles
fit together just right. He got her ice cream, but ice cream and pieces come with
a price. An answer came knocking in the middle of the night like chocolate
sauce and sprinkles. A secret she would keep, a little piece of cherry. Sentiments
whispered that taken ears should never hear. Those words were sweet and
everyone likes something sweet. Something sweet makes everything better.
Today. The whore isn’t a doctor and she doesn’t know love.
Broken hearts are meant for fixing, but not with stolen pieces and chocolate
sealed secrets. Nothing too sweet is ever delicious. No sometimes sweet turns
sour.The bottle and pills, no she wont see a doctor, but she does have a plan. With her bouquet of names and arsenal
of sweetness she carries a crooked smile, looking for pieces and cherries untainted
by secrets or words that hold her hostage.
