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.
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