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 façade),
With this in hand
you nominate yourself the victim
Brandishing a history
Too contrived to be
You were raped
in sweet memories
The bonds of trust, of truth
frayed with every violation.
You, with tight eyes and made-up clothes
A secret unholdable
You sweetly lie; you sweetly sell yourself.
are a cheap, ugly whore.