I'm old and wrinkled, celibate and wise,
devoted to the passions of the mind,
spurning sex or even plain affection
so I can think. Lust was my worst addiction -

"Please don't touch me!" never left my lips;
some hot new guy who I could not resist
would show up just in time to retrofit
inside the cleft another man had left -

no time that wasn't filled with love's excess.
But now, the Change is done, and only Death
whistles, insistently: I am a bitch
who will not come. My bones bristle; they snap

at nothing. Solitude - what I once wished
for furtively - becomes me, lure and trap.