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After a while guilt goes, depression leaves
and you become attractive once again.

You weren’t always this beaten soul who grieves
and blames just herself. You were a tribesman

of Pan, a priestess of Lilith. The world
saw joy in you, in what you haven’t felt,

you say, in years. This Hell, this Underworld
of yours, it can’t hold you once sorrows melt

and pains vanish. Outside, at dawn, a freak
with an antique box waits for you … count me

among your loves. Pleasure is our birthright.
It’s here, in this, “cabinet satyrique.”

It’s here, when both our tribes come together:
butch-armed tribad and fey-boy sodomite.