After all of these years I finally sent something in to try and get published. Two things, actually. The first was rejected, and I was informed that I needed more life experience. The second was accepted.
Here is the rejected piece.
Sixteen years old and wandering
the red light district is full of hustlers,
the sex shops alive
with nervous men looking to cum,
while cop cars line the curbs,
their occupants taking notes and pictures.
Hookers say, “Hello!” trying to engage
the men passing by,
using quaint, feminine ways,
like flashing their tits.
One of them is fascinated with my mohawk
and asks if she can touch it.
I freeze, cold to the offer,
repulsed by the sight of her
messy, handled hair,
her eyes half-closed and hazy,
her skirt hiked up to reveal her skinny thighs,
brightly colored pink panties hiding
her wet, used cunt.
Through her smoke-cracked voice
I hear something child-like and lost,
innocence coming from all of that mess.
I see she is young but weathered.
I hear her question.
Torn and unstable
I turn my eyes away.
Here is the link to the accepted one.