I see you dress up your depravity
In silken threads that might distract my sight,
This is how you open, and greet the night
Which waits, a pit of lewd activity.
You strip your fingers to the very bone,
That you might touch a shoulder or a cheek.
Amidst a haze of powder, you are weak
And fall to bed; this house is not your own.
I curl embroidered hearts for you alone,
I sit in wait, and soberly assess
That I am not as vexed as I am shamed
For myself; it is for your sins that I atone,
Having none myself, I cannot caress
Anyone; I am unsexed and unnamed.
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