Tell me, love, is this your soul
that you leave so casually on the armoire,
draped over the edge like a soiled skirt
waiting so long for an impossible rinse?
Is this your past crumpled on the floor,
a hope and a promise balled-up stockings,
best intentions kicked to the corner
blike threadbare tattered overworn shoes?
If these best things are now shed,
what new threads have you adorned?
A wardrobe of lies and darker things,
of compromises and acceptances and descents,
new low-cut dresses and slutty garters,
crotchless panties and knee-high boots,
crisp leather corsets and studded collars,
belts designed to receive your rent?
Are these new clothes the best you could do,
or perhaps these were the outfits
you secretly dreamt of as a girl,
while trapped seething in your pretty bows?