You can tell me
in remarkable detail
about how you ****** that guy
not once
  but twice
    in the handicap stall
      of the first floor bathroom.

I won't judge you
or think less of you
or even blink
as you tell me
how he finished all over your face
and you licked up
  every
    last
      drop.

No, I'll sit there quietly,
  listening intently,
    because, to be honest,
      it doesn't bother me.

But if you stare at me
with hungry eyes
or comment on how "****" I look
or even offer to please me
without any sort of reciprocation
because you just want to make me feel good,
I will tense up,
shut down,
  retreat into my metaphorical cave,
    and only reemerge
      when the coast is clear.

Yes, you can tell me
  all about your *** life,
    but I don't even want to think
      about mine.