poem | thoughts of an edo-era courtesan

I of all people know the pain of love.

I have kneeled on so many floors that my knees have become numb,

does it really matter if it's from the scrubbing, or the entertaining? the pleasuring?

either way I am sore.

what do you have to tell me that I haven't already heard under this wide white moon?

do you have anything to offer me that is not of my own expense?

the beautiful silk you paid for conceals my sore, pale skin. but you prefer to see me without them, don't you?

I hope the light is just low enough not for you to see them, scattered on the floor. 

but I hope it's just bright enough for you to not see that I am a lot like them, underneath you.

that's not what I write in my letter to you, though-

dear yoshimura-sama,...

your face reminds me of my father who sold me off when I was seven. 

my whole life has revolved around buying and selling; our movement keeps the world turning.

I pause to listen to the shamisen in the room over. 

it is both an asset and an expense, as it is merely the precursor for your real enjoyment,

an expensive piece of foreplay. anticipation builds as the already short song seems to drag on.

what good is such artistry when performed alone? art for its own sake yields no hairpins.

it certainly doesn't provide me with what I need.

...I hope to see you again soon. thank you for your patronage, I finish with. I set my brush aside.

when it falls quiet, the sound of alcohol & passion compensates.

in the morning I will thank your brethren for coming & you will be too drunk to hear me.

I am the caricature of luxury. I reflect the creativity of more successful women to you,

and you enjoy it. refrain from thinking too highly of me.

the theatre and its woman-like actors can capture the scale of my grandeur, but not that of my fantasy.

I will be remembered by you both not as myself but what I was in your arms, crying tearlessly.

how strange that I can bear the weight of your body but not your words?

you are too warm for me to stomach. the warmth I radiate back is disingenuous. 

I know not what to do with this won affection of mine but evade it, and keep turning.

for it, I dread seeing you again.

I am thankful that you cannot see me blanching underneath the white paint of my skin.

I, though alone, hide my face in my fan, for fear of what you might think of me as I really am.

poem(?) inspired by this ^ image