I knew I loved you
when I first saw you smoking
on the balcony of the bordello—
your hair black as midnight,
long as the Great Wall,
your skin pale as moonlight,
a mirror of flesh,
your lips red as the blood
pounding through my heart.
I swore I’d set you free.
Our first meeting was magic.
You made me feel like more than a peasant,
more than a cog in the machine.
The madam laughed when I spoke of marriage.
*”A poor man has no right to court our jewels,”* she said.
So I worked.
I worked till my palms split,
till my skin burned bronze,
till my knees buckled
under the weight of my own hope.
*One hundred gold coins*—
that was the price of your freedom.
Year after year, I labored,
never regretting my choice…
…until the day the news struck me
like an ice pick to the skull:
*A wealthy man had bought your hand.*
How is this fair?
After all I bled for you,
after all I broke for you—
only to learn
not all men are born equal.
The Stones Bleed Like Me 