Of those two dozen men,
Who took me with the same
Strangely calculated touch,
Insulting me with their lust.

Of those few women,
Wrapped in the same plated lace
To compensate for the form within
Like a second skin.

Of that collection of men,
Their unreciprocated pleasure
Was the cost of their desire,
Which reassured my worth.

Always the pleasure
Peels off with the skin.
Always the end of it
Relieves the pain.

Only ask for death,
Which will always be repaid
Please destroy my lust,
Disillusioned by the touch.