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.