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 want them to

but all they see

is sex

halting breath and

sweat and

fluid movements

and pain

you think that is

splendid

you want to be

seen as

open for business

but 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

so that theres a rip

in the fabric of the collar

and if you put it on

it bags 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.