Jacquie was a proud woman

Walking through the streets

With a swagger

And her head held high

 

Jeans clinging like a second skin

Cotton tops with super cling

Hair long and black

A complexion

Of the Red Indian

 

Jacquie knew her power

She wore it like an accessory

As she strutted through town

Leaving behind a string of men

Wide eyed and stuttering

 

Occasionally

She would let one in

They would fill their boots

Taking whatever pleased

Until Jacquie was left alone

Broken by their callousness

 

She would seek solace

In the white lines

And Malibu

Pretending to all the world

That she was fine

 

You see

This beautiful Red Indian

Was delicate as a new seedling

She’d learnt her value

Was in her physicality

Beyond that

There was nowt to see

 

Self preservation

Came from concealing

Her sensitivity

She smothered it

In booze and drugs

Which only served

To encourage the thugs

 

She failed to see

The cycle of futility

Created by her own humility.

C.K. 22