"What will you do for a ten, baby?
C'mon, lay it all out on the bathroom floor."
Gripping the lust in my left hand, I slip it
under my dress as I leave the night lights behind me --
wiping honesty across my lips without a mirror,
painting my eyes shut for our goodnight's kiss, I'm dirty.
The shower runs cold, I scrub for fruitless hours trying to
rid myself of the stench of stripping, but it clings to me
like the guilt from sins, the scent of a household irritant.
I ache as I've been beaten down in dignity, down where even
low-lifes can grind above me, into me; I pray I can slip their lust
beneath my skin, but he can't come due to the rain.
"I'll call you back, honey. I can't come home because of the rain."
Washroom, no wonder it's all all steel and irony.
