Death of a Virgin

Death of a Virgin I lost my virginity...to another woman, like myself. I am a Lesbian. I cracked my knuckles as the prosecutor began to beam away from me. I am a virgin whore. Those thoughts continue to trickle down my mind. My husband was open. He was an imaginary person in the about of a dream. My thoughts run rampant. There is no time for folly; no time for clearance. My heart is sinking...and then... I embrace her wet lips and begin to devour her bosom. Her love was as strong as it was unwavering: the perfect vestal virgin suicide. Like making love to a man but better, but not a dog, and yet, but not a ravenous beast either... I feel content here writing these words: the presuming words, presumptuous. As in, pre-SUME. As in Virgin suicide. As in. Perfect harmony. As in, Virgin prostitution. My walls are filled with love-making. I feel the cold warming up into splinters and it nips into each pasture like a dew of a dawn of a reindeer or a doe nipping at wintery trees into the solstice after Springtime had just arrived. The battering cold was predatorial, and masculine, as the artificial rod from which I was thinking simmered down into her and made her moan, fiercely. I lick the remains like the jaws of a lioness after it kills its prey, constantly tasting its blood. Its womb was worse, a virgin woman's, and I, its paternal partner. How elaborate a thought this was. How to color a treat. To reconcile my ultimatum. Remaining absonate, eternal.