You pray to nobody but your nervous system,
and to the blood that bounds round your betraying body,
begging it not to gather and loiter at the sight of her garter,
holding vigil for your fertile imagination,
holding your hands together, alarmed by their heat,
praying for the miracle of a clear mind.
There is a gallon of guilt swilling around your unclean soul,
so you open an ancient tome and tell yourself a story.
Nothing is as the others see it,
and neither are you.
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