Guilt comes in our silences

I tell myself that I am a far flung ideal, 

my thoughts love to attract anything worth regret,

no company more loved by misery 

than the graveyard in which my mind sleeps.

I look in the mirror and brush my teeth,

routines somehow scratching too far under my skin.

Is this really all that there is to me?

I promise myself that an outsider’s touch is more righteous,

a more decent approach than my own uninitiated fingers 

their ability only impervious in excavating guilt.

I make believe that my from own hands 

blooms only promises of wraiths and perversion.

(this is how I try to keep to the vehement gospel others once gave)

tell me if you have found yourself here before:

does not wanting to conform to society 

suddenly become a crown of thorns?

what is the truth then- am I, according to society, 

guilty of intemperance because of my indifference?

does my self considerations and explorations

-as a woman always and forever untamed by the touch of men-

do nothing except cast me away 

am I to be nothing but a chapter in an unholy book

warning against the sins of becoming

 a demented and confused whore?

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