Charmingly Flushed

You would not fancy me distraught; I think  
I have to cloak my fucked, unhappy heart;  
You'll never know, (unless I'm on the brink  
Of some explosive tantrum and the start  
Of waves of unrequited grief); your crimes  
Are so minor, I'm placid; glowing youth  
Allows ungracious manners; rudeness binds  
My brow with frowns; I wonder if there's truth  
In your preoccupation with my crap?  
You covet this - my budding womanhood?  
So, does this augur well? Are you the cat  
Who's bound to taste rich cream and find it good  
To use me (as desired)? Will fierce fucks stoke  
Impassioned thoughts? (To distract from my cloak).