Who am I, that I am not on trial, or in prison?
Me, ruthless and devilish as any, that my wrists are
not chained with iron, or my ankles with iron?
5.You prostitutes flaunting over the trottoirs, or obscene
in your rooms,
Who am I, that I should call you more obscene than
myself?
6.O culpable! O traitor!
O I acknowledge—I exposé!
(O admirers! praise not me! compliment not me! you
make me wince,
I see what you do not—I know what you do not;)
Inside these breast-bones I lie smutch'd and choked,
Beneath this face that appears so impassive, hell's
tides continually run,
Lusts and wickedness are acceptable to me,
I walk with delinquents with passionate love,
I feel I am of them—I belong to those convicts and
prostitutes myself,
And henceforth I will not deny them—for how can I
deny myself?
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