When you were at your worst you drew my blood
Then, sensitive as a lamb did return
To lick the very wounds that you did shape.
For that did I linger, your supplicant.
You filled me when it suited you; each time
Was I left wanting and unsatisfied.
And for the beacon of hope too far off
Did I repeatedly return, prostrate.
In your presence did I forget myself
And in the glass my form returned a lie.
No likeness liked but liked the wanting still
Until with bored and carefree glance did you
Make real what was reflected all the while.