I hide in rooms of lines

Where words are everything

And identity nothing.

Where I whore myself out

With careless abandon

To imageless men

Who are old enough,

Definitely, to know better

But just too horny to care.

Where I pretend pleasure

And lie about touching myself:

Letting their humiliating abuse

And crude, controlling words

Wash over me with the metallic

Taste of burning shame,

Mixed with anger and fear

And the disgust born of self-loathing

Whilst I wonder if doing this

Conveys the revulsion and distaste

And disregard in which I hold myself.