He thinks I don’t know about his dirty secret.
The shameful gallery of snapshots
hidden in his darkroom closet.

He thinks it’s not painfully obvious
how his greed makes his fingers twitch
whenever my body is within his reach.

His extended eye, the cold lens,
always following my every move, or frown
as soon as I bend over or turn around.

His telescopic arousal never cease
to record the sliver of nude above my hips
or the slight curve of my scornful lips.