He feels bad for denying his body

to the ones that do not want it.

His hands stay in his pockets.

His lips open only to speak.

Every part of him feels the sacrifice.

Every woman in the club

doesn’t notice that he’s there.

He keeps his eye on the men

who do surrender to their longing.

The other sex assign themselves

to each and every one

of these unabashed lotharios.

He despises how the way they abase themselves.

No way he’d demean himself

by asking another to dance.

His soul is pure.

His conscience, a fountain of clarity.

If any sin tonight,

it won’t be on his account.

When the place closes,

he goes home alone again.

“Did you have a good time?”

asks his mother.

He had an unblemished time.

He feels bad for thinking that’s good.

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