With few exceptions, they were all called John, 

One John after another, 

Same look—ugly—same values, or lack thereof, same obsessions with things, 

Same worship of evil men, who had now exposed themselves as devils. 

Same grotesque, infantile ego, hidden behind saccharine words that no serious person would utter—just fronts, ploys, covers for their impossible-to-hide narcissism. 

It was in all of their eyes.

And all knew each other, because they were all the same, the same guy at base,

The same guy she’d run from, but kept returning to because the were all who showed interest and were acceptable—acceptable to a world that coddled louts, 

And they all acted liked johns … treating her as their call girl,

Plying a few nice words and appeals to common background, roping her in,

The last, playing upon her grief from the loss of her one true John, 

Expecting her immediate subservience, which she gave. 

It was dirty pool, manipulation at its most ugly. 

How she could not see it, a product of refusing to see it. 

She knew it well, the same pattern, but she chose it anyway. 

Maneuvering for a piece of their business, hidden behind tears and empty cooing. 

All named John, even the ones with other monikers essentially just Johns.

A stark reminder of neurosis, of infantilism carried into adulthood, seeking the security of daddy, irrationally inviting in abuse, again and again. 

A neon sign giving away true motives. 

There was no love in any of it, just business deals labeled courtship, 

There was no truth in that world, and she sold herself to Johns.