Your pity is a cheap thing, I realize injurious truth tattooed on pale canvas are illustrations I should have never seen and without bending I display them on the outside of me.
Your pity is a cheap thing, I wiped myself clean stinking of rancid perfume, oh former lovers spectres that plague my bedsheets when I'm beneath you saturated by the outside of you inside of me.
Your pity is a cheap thing, I sizzled against you whirlwind speech absorbed in clutch pillows moisture betraying my timid refusal. What is it that I can't beat the power in you, subduing me. You only pity things that come cheap.