In most instances what’s bad is not the act, 

But the motivation. 

I hear you judge …

Calling my condemnation hypocrisy. 

But my impetus was your deception, 

And I only used what was freely found, not altered.

Not me … you weren’t that lucky. 

A desperate plot to lead your melodramatic vindictiveness astray. 

No, you have no right to judge, 

You with your lips sealed to the truth.

You who altered history to bend minds against me. 

You who did not really suffer. 

And what true harm did it inflict? 

Nought. Nothing real. 

You went on as always. 

But you disingenuously played the Victorian prig. 

We both know what you gave yourself to, 

No Puritans to be found, 

Openly perverse, foul-mouthed and minded, 

And you cannot take back what fell from your own tongue, 

Which gives you away. 

No, dear, I can play dirty, but I am not sick as they are. 

Are you, with your dishonest reflexes? 

Or did you flee … is that what you named abuse? 

For I never would have sought to harm you, 

Though I defended myself. 

You would have enjoyed me had you given me a “trial.” 

I who saw more in you than your flaws. 

How awfully wrong I was.