Red lights

Desperate times call for desperate measures. Desperate eyes calling for your attention, but not truly wanting it; defiant humiliation, naked embarrassment leaking through every look, every glance. But cold stares hiding fear and expressing false love conceal all, begging to be believed. And the men, they fall for it, like they've been shot by cupids from burning hell, they turn to those with nothing like nothing at all is wrong. Crisp paper makes for morals and all the world is of course reality. 

With God-made bodies pressed up against the glass, they entice what will keep them alive, masters of a desperate trade always to exist and always to be judged. Perhaps with children to feed, they must stand under the stares and look back, strong. Just a tool, a method of pleasure, to be used as if they are worthless, but yet they must be strong. Though even the strongest and the most experienced have eyes that flash with fury at the world, at themselves for standing sentinel to their stupid, sickening profession. Respect is false, love is false, their happiness and livelihoods are false.

All read in a glance, a quick peek through the glass at a pretty woman striking a sexy pose, looking back as if she seeps normality. But under the surface, desperation lurks like a sickening overwhelming disease, pulsating through the streets and through the very hearts of the fearful females. When you've hit the true depths of disaster, where do you go? To the place with the red lights, to the whore's death row.