Do you think I'm pretty

When I smile at you, with all my grief

Or my red stained nails that stick out like festering welts

In the belly of your mouth,

Poor of love and guilt stricken; a memoir of candied sin,

Like milk teeth scraping the leftovers of a lovers 

Tongued map of hills uneven,

A mausoleum of a lust

Catered to the worst of us