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South Central.
Every day we running.
Every day — looking to be.
Becoming.
But what are you becoming?
Always remembering — sometimes we are not alone.
Let me light this fag once more, tilt my head toward the stars, take a puff — let it swirl into the heavens.
This story?
It’s about a woman who never knew her worth.
Cash was taught to her as the worth of her time — but more importantly, of her soul.
She is part of the high-heel brigade that runs the streets of Figueroa once it goes dark.
She.
I’ll call her she — she could be you.
She moves with her battalion to the beat of the click-clacking as the cars approach for their nightly services.
On one of these nights — a cool night — a John approached, and off to the races they went.
“So, how’s the night been so far?”
John looking ahead, certain he will be satisfied tonight. Or will he?
“Oh, you’re my first client of the night.”
Streetlights sip through the windows like flashes of phantoms passing through — as the John drives down the B-L-A-D-E.
She tilts her head to look through her window.
Her phone lights up.
The glow reveals — her son.
She is a young mother.
“Oh, what’s that?” the John clamors.
“It’s my son. I have two kids.”
To remember who you were… that’s the struggle of us all.
She puts her phone to the side.
“I have to make ends meet, you know.”
“Do you enjoy what you do?” the John asks, almost frankly.
She doesn’t hesitate.
“I do what I have to do. I am — a single mother.”
They drive through the streets.
Headlights illuminating the path — pitch black.
All you see are silhouettes.
The car roars slowly… steady.
She whispers, eyes darting at every sedan.
“Agents roam these streets in regular cars.”
Silence.
She pauses, voice lower now:
“I don’t even like doing this.”
…
You can imagine the rest.
Car rocking back and forth — rock’a my baby.
Rock’a my baby.
Let the smoke swirl once more.
Crush it out.
The night moves on.
🥷 You don’t have to believe. You can ignore it. But if you knew… would you believe it happens?
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