Grow up

Maybe you don’t think it’s rude
If you ask to pay me for sex.
I’m 18.
Like that’s how it works out here.

Like, this is where the power sits.
This is what money is.
And I can buy you if your bank account
is worth more than your self respect.

And you can dress it up as art.
A frozen dancer with a student overdraft.
Paid fifteen quid for you to view.
So sketch the shape of my arm,
The way my back creates an arch,
But edit out the fact my feet are black and blue.

Because we’re the children of generations
being financially dependent.
And servants of “the greater sex”.