Gutter Prayers with a Loaded Hand
Red neon slaps the windowpane, veins pulsing in tandem with some after-midnight grind,
Her silhouette is a bruise pressed fl against the cheap motel blinds,
A cigarette dangles from her lips—ash nearly breaking, the orange ember just barely alive—
As she balances on the knife-edge of want and regret, undressed for money, but undressing truth,
One hand slick with sweat and some stranger’s spit, the other clutching a loaded fantasy—
He’s on his knees, mouth pressed where he isn’t allowed, sweat and words dripping off his chin,
She’s carved out a space for power here, straddling the ache, riding every breath for survival,
Her laugh—broken glass on linoleum, hard, real, ugly as the memory of her first time selling what was never his to buy,
There’s nothing sacred in this room but the friction of bodies and secrets exchanged for bills,
No angels here, only sinners praying for a climax or a confession, whichever comes first,
He wants her to hurt him, to press her palm to his thro and squeeze until the room spins,
She does it—whispering filth, name-calling, teeth scraping the soft underbelly of his need,
She’s a loaded hand, cocked and dangerous, pleasure and destruction blended until nobody remembers where love lived,
Every thrust a dare, every moan a bet, every slap another tally in the game of forgetting,
She wonders if heat’ll call her again, or if the next will be rougher, softer, more desperate for absolution,
Her hips grind down with the force of old wounds, knees burning with prayers for a god she doesn’t trust,
She rides him until he begs, and when he finishes, she wches his soul fumble for his wallet,
The room stinks of lex and old hope, the sheets tangled in shame and cheap cologne,
She counts her cash with the hands that just strangled his secrets out of him,
She lights another cigarette, smokes the silence, stares her reflection in the cracked mirror—
Lipstick smeared, mascara running, sweat glittering on her collarbones,
There’s no rescue coming, no romance in survival, just the rhythm of power exchanged and taken back,
She is loaded, cocked, a weapon in a world that wants her empty,
She leaves before the sun comes up, his whimpering stuck in her head like a song she never wants to hear again,
And she walks out, hips swaying, unbroken but not untouched,
Loaded hand, empty bed, but her grip is strong enough to crush the world.
Song: Gutter Prayers with a Loaded Hand
Moonlit window, bruises shining,
Her eyes hold every war she’s surviving,
On the sheets, power’s bleeding,
Desire or heat—can’t tell wh’s feeding,
She’s a loaded hand, ready for breaking,
Every scream, every thrust, every boundary shaking.
Loaded hand, take what you can,
Trading hurt for hope in a nightstand plan,
Stranger’s need, her dirty command,
She’s not owned, she’s not damned,
She’s a loaded hand—no mercy, no brand.
He wants pain, she delivers,
Makes him shiver, makes him a giver,
She rides out guilt on a fist and a dare,
No fairy tale, just sweat and a stare,
Counting bills with a warrior’s grace,
No savior here, just a broken embrace.
Loaded hand, take what you can,
Trading hurt for hope in a nightstand plan,
Stranger’s need, her dirty command,
She’s not owned, she’s not damned,
She’s a loaded hand—no mercy, no brand.
She’s walking out when the world’s asleep,
Loaded with secrets too twisted to keep,
Doesn’t flinch, doesn’t pray,
Just another night—she walks away.
Loaded hand, take what you can,
Trading hurt for hope in a nightstand plan,
Stranger’s need, her dirty command,
She’s not owned, she’s not damned,
She’s a loaded hand—no mercy, no brand.
Red neon slaps the windowpane, veins pulsing in tandem with some after-midnight grind,
Her silhouette is a bruise pressed fl against the cheap motel blinds,
A cigarette dangles from her lips—ash nearly breaking, the orange ember just barely alive—
As she balances on the knife-edge of want and regret, undressed for money, but undressing truth,
One hand slick with sweat and some stranger’s spit, the other clutching a loaded fantasy—
He’s on his knees, mouth pressed where he isn’t allowed, sweat and words dripping off his chin,
She’s carved out a space for power here, straddling the ache, riding every breath for survival,
Her laugh—broken glass on linoleum, hard, real, ugly as the memory of her first time selling what was never his to buy,
There’s nothing sacred in this room but the friction of bodies and secrets exchanged for bills,
No angels here, only sinners praying for a climax or a confession, whichever comes first,
He wants her to hurt him, to press her palm to his thro and squeeze until the room spins,
She does it—whispering filth, name-calling, teeth scraping the soft underbelly of his need,
She’s a loaded hand, cocked and dangerous, pleasure and destruction blended until nobody remembers where love lived,
Every thrust a dare, every moan a bet, every slap another tally in the game of forgetting,
She wonders if heat’ll call her again, or if the next will be rougher, softer, more desperate for absolution,
Her hips grind down with the force of old wounds, knees burning with prayers for a god she doesn’t trust,
She rides him until he begs, and when he finishes, she wches his soul fumble for his wallet,
The room stinks of lex and old hope, the sheets tangled in shame and cheap cologne,
She counts her cash with the hands that just strangled his secrets out of him,
She lights another cigarette, smokes the silence, stares her reflection in the cracked mirror—
Lipstick smeared, mascara running, sweat glittering on her collarbones,
There’s no rescue coming, no romance in survival, just the rhythm of power exchanged and taken back,
She is loaded, cocked, a weapon in a world that wants her empty,
She leaves before the sun comes up, his whimpering stuck in her head like a song she never wants to hear again,
And she walks out, hips swaying, unbroken but not untouched,
Loaded hand, empty bed, but her grip is strong enough to crush the world.
Song: Gutter Prayers with a Loaded Hand
Moonlit window, bruises shining,
Her eyes hold every war she’s surviving,
On the sheets, power’s bleeding,
Desire or heat—can’t tell wh’s feeding,
She’s a loaded hand, ready for breaking,
Every scream, every thrust, every boundary shaking.
Loaded hand, take what you can,
Trading hurt for hope in a nightstand plan,
Stranger’s need, her dirty command,
She’s not owned, she’s not damned,
She’s a loaded hand—no mercy, no brand.
He wants pain, she delivers,
Makes him shiver, makes him a giver,
She rides out guilt on a fist and a dare,
No fairy tale, just sweat and a stare,
Counting bills with a warrior’s grace,
No savior here, just a broken embrace.
Loaded hand, take what you can,
Trading hurt for hope in a nightstand plan,
Stranger’s need, her dirty command,
She’s not owned, she’s not damned,
She’s a loaded hand—no mercy, no brand.
She’s walking out when the world’s asleep,
Loaded with secrets too twisted to keep,
Doesn’t flinch, doesn’t pray,
Just another night—she walks away.
Loaded hand, take what you can,
Trading hurt for hope in a nightstand plan,
Stranger’s need, her dirty command,
She’s not owned, she’s not damned,
She’s a loaded hand—no mercy, no brand.