I never saw love in a whorehouse—did you?

There were beautiful souls selling a bit, disturbed men hoping a bit was enough. Blood-spattered ceilings, walls painted in despair. I never saw love in a whorehouse, where emotions pretended to be love and whispers were said to be bold. Love has always been a loud thing to me— not technicolour bold, but rather soft and strong. Everyone could see it. It didn’t have to be said. It would have protected a young girl at nine, and a boy at twelve.