Store Front

A poem based on personal experience about surviving human trafficking

Maya Strong
Jun 24 · 1 min read
Photo by Matthew Smith on Unsplash

This store knows only robbers

Price tags fluctuate at whim

Whenever it benefits some higher system

I could never understand.

One day, these goods are dirt cheap

The next, a sum too tall to pay,

Someone should say

Something

But they don’t, and they won’t,

The time is never right.

They drive by these blackened windows every night

Cruise past this boarded door in broad daylight.

Convince themselves the bullet holes are there for decoration

Swallow the lie in one gulp to chase down the hesitation

They know it.

I know it.

You know it.

Two cops walk into a bar

Slide a twenty under the table

Order a girl

Who isn’t able to speak.

That was supposed to be funny

Why is everyone staring, heads cocked to the side,

Smiles sliding off chairs shattering like an ass

Glass

Smashes into the floor

Down the corridor

Whore

You don’t want to go with me?

Why?

They see the same cars parked in the lot

Never moving, seems everyone forgot

Someone once lived here.

Must have moved away.

There was no obituary this week.

Did you check the news?

The picture is fuzzy

The sound is sizzling

Static.

The New North

// Home of storytellers // Facebook: @thenewnorth

Maya Strong

Written by

Intersectional feminist. Everyday activist. Out/proud enby queer. They/Them. For the rest of the story, read my words. Say hi at mayastrong.writer@gmail.com 💜

The New North

// Home of storytellers // Facebook: @thenewnorth

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