The voice of mutes made by cries that fall on deaf ears.
The sounds of silence ringing on telephones of imagination and hopeful expectation.
Filled with dignity,
Clothed in shame.
"Ginger" had a name...once.
Harvested fresh then dried, cut, used, burned, smashed, infused.
Over processed seasonings fill a rich dish, and full stomachs.
To go home and gorge oneself more on an unknowing victim of a man's whore.
"Ginger" is a whore.
She used to play dress up with her sisters as a child, and dream of the mister she was going to marry.
But love missed her, and she missed love.
Purity was a jumbled phrase that screamed "U R PITY!".
U R the story that keeps people awake at night, that brings others to tears, that ignites precautions and fears.
Hope is a relative word.
"Where are my relatives?" Ginger asks.
She remembered being told she was loved,
Water under the bridge her life moves on from underneath her.
Underneath her so she can watch it safely from the bridge created by the lies from the dish she seasons.
I had a name...once...she loudly thought to the silently ringing telephones.