When you lived in the past,
your biography had

nothing to do with you.
You loved me for lust that
I'd never have given

you, though I wanted you.
Why you insist I'm cold
and call me frigid I

will lonely imagine.
It is your chest the air
frosted, your anger I've

opened for Pandora.
I have been a heater
to the newborn in you

and so you scream at me.
There are better uses

for my breasts than your thirst

                                  
even if they'd quench it.