What a perfect excuse, loneliness. 
Sex & violence, the essence of this,
the confession that I do not confess. 

I turn the lights on before I undress. 
The mirror is something I cannot miss.
What a perfect excuse, this loneliness,

the most cherished thing that I possess. 
It’s a curdled rapture, a spoiled bliss,
a confession that I will not confess. 

It’s never the cause of my distress. 
It seals my eyes with a lingering kiss. 
What a perfect excuse is loneliness,

that risible, invisible caress. 
So terrible, so apt. It’s what I’ll miss
when I confess what I cannot confess:

that you alone will make my heart fluoresce.
My love is the death you cannot dismiss. 
What a perfect excuse, loneliness! 
This is not a confession; I confess.

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