poem: love or lust? saint or whore?

the moths on the backs of my hands

will not answer me; they sit mute

and flutter at the traffic.

once again, I’ve made

the wrong decision: whose idea was it,

to come here and wait for him,

to run a waterfull over the chairs and tables

to let him see the desperation, the dark-blood

shirt, the things in my eyes

all echoes, all froth.

 

the girls in white dresses have turned

away; I am ghoul, I am maiden

I am gone.

 

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