abuser song #9: the true

[joel]

You never wore the low-caste honor—loathed
with earthworm eyes enslaved to humus clapped
beneath abusers’ costly footwear, pissed
with ornamental flies about your stench
that, just as baby-saints are underscored
by cherubs, lined your worth. No, you were loved.
It’s difficult for me to know in you
the person other than my Loved: the true.
But I don’t love you now; and I’ve removed
my gracious adoration—you’re abhorred
and not my heathen deity. To wrench
my love was but to show your worth dismissed
and I don’t love you now. You’re newly wrapped
in truths you never were—and lowly clothed.