you relinquish your rights
to the passion
sink into the lust
demean yourself
so you are all
slut
and no man
you hold yourself slyly
hoping they will
look at you
in the way
that you look at yourself
all they see
is sex
halting breath and
sweat
fluid movements
and pain
you think that this is
splendid, you want them to know
you are open for business
all I can see
is dirty sheets
and no meaning.
you are like
clothes
from the flea market
pre-worn
already filled
with another’s scent
and cheap, flimsy, threadbare
weak... a shirt
with a red paint stain
and the tag torn out
violently, a rip
in the fabric of the collar
and if you put it on
it clings and hangs
in certain spots
remembering the former
owner
and all the wearer
can think about
is that someone else
wore this first
perhaps sweat in it
used the sleeve
to wipe their nose
perhaps they puked
while wearing it
to me
you are this shirt
all you see
is passion, lust, sex
all I see
is filth, weakness
stained and ripped
and completely meaningless.