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You
are a prostitute of lies.

Not just one
and never owning your apocryphy;
Leaving behind your sated johns.

With a painted heart
and a locked face
and a body that hides your clothes.

Your farce, your masterpiece
(Too artful to be named fa├žade),
With this in hand
you nominate yourself the victim
Brandishing a history
Too contrived to be
untrue.

You were raped
in sweet memories
The bonds of trust, of truth
frayed with every violation.

You
The betrayer
The betrayed
You, with tight eyes and made-up clothes
A secret unholdable
You sweetly lie; you sweetly sell yourself.

You
are a cheap, ugly whore.

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