I don’t have morals, but I still live chaste

I’m bad—but I behave—I contradict 

myself—I never do what I depict. 

I don’t have morals, but I still live chaste; 

I write the worst so it won’t go to waste. 

I don’t lie down—but still a girl can lie 

on paper—to remember someone by. 

In sanity—a clean, well-lighted place— 

I write things you won’t read upon my face. 

Brides and virgins need their privacy; 

invite a crowd—there’s nothing here to see. 

(Honestly? This name was never mine— 

if it becomes notorious—that’s fine 

by me—how many times has he had sex 

since he became my once and future ex? 

Let him assume I never sleep at night— 

not that what keeps me up’s this need to write.) 

 

Nuns fret not at their convents’ narrow rooms. 

I’m not ashamed to fret. The wide world looms 

so I lie down, under the fretful covers 

and fret with all my dearly faulty lovers 

who wander fully clothed at some remove 

of minds and miles—they don’t guess that they love, 

or the proximity of lip & tongue 

the infinite ways that we’ve devised to come, 

the things I say he’s never failed to say, 

the mess we made of the sheets the other day. 

Am I then so dishonest when I lie 

all unashamed, because what haven’t I 

done with you—all that we haven’t done 

exposed here to the full light of the sun. 

 

I lie with you, I lie for all to see, 

enjoy such lying as allowed to me. 

 

Material proof—what kind of evidence 

(DNA, denial)—that’s the president’s 

problem. If I say you’re here with me 

then here you are. And here. And heresy 

the claim a heart might need more proof than this 

or body confirmation of heart’s bliss. 

It’s life when I protest what we have done 

and through real veins I feel the hot blood run. 

Then you, whom I can’t have, I love as real 

as life and twice as natural, I feel 

you in my bones. I’ve nothing to declare 

except my self—I’m duty free—I swear 

I’m ninety-nine and forty-four percent pure 

guilt—I only wish my guilt secure. 

Could we do something that I couldn’t say 

or trust to paper? Dear, I’d seize the day. 

 

[Jennifer Clarvoe, 'I'm Bad', from Counter-Amores]