Buried

Lipstick smeared across basement walls
never made you a woman—
 
Red stains in white cotton never did, either.  
 
Your fingers wandered into unfamiliar
caverns, coloring cheeks ruby red:
meanwhile in some corner, sat tiny
versions of a spirit collapsed.  
 
Where was the kill switch—
 
The thing inside telling you to stop.  
 
There is far too much recognition  
in my developed psyche  
to ever hand out a free pass,
 
but I burn truth and bury lies  
because you clearly still have  
the devil in your eyes.