Harlot

Leave me alone
Without me having to beg
The day runs over me
And living is a losing fight.

My pale desire
Is a restless fly
That, disillusioned, lives in the penumbra
Fed up with its own boredom.

My story is a badly written work
Pending other interpretations
Except mine.

There is no exile more cruel than life itself
Against the facts and factors, we only have submission
We are like harlots in the hands of the delinquent system.