You pity for their illness but don’t have the guts to name it. 

Is it sin amongst good faith, or faith that you’re above their sin?

 You were fed morality off of a silver spoon. 

Guilt shakes your hand as you walk in the door. 

Sleeps next to you in a queen sized bed. 

Guilt is your lover. 

Does it ever cross your mind when you blaspheme their lives? 

You are but an idiot who loves her painted face.