Don't you worry for me.
I'm alive.

Words pour out of me
like the rivers of thrill
that gushed from deep within me
and rushed away in silent screaming,
in-between the glorious thighs
you missed out on.

Maybe I was only ever there
to prepare you for her.

Maybe I hung by a thread
so you don't hang your head.

Don't you feel sorry for me.
I survived.

With my heart in my hands
at the gates of a shrine
I swore to never forget how your face lit
when you said that I was
your favourite hypocrite.