CC Bloom Poet Free verse

Surviving the years of 'Virgin Suicides'

wasn't easy or fun,
for me, or my sisters,
or my mother
(a woman who also survived
her own virgin years).

The dramatic thought
of a passionate death
is a delicious illusion

when you are 17
and caught between
child and adult,
and still dependent,
or nakedly independent
and stark
as a scarecrow
in the middle of
your own awkward
cornfield.

I loved the music of Enya
and I would 'Sail Away'
dancing in my room
in the dying evening
when I imagined that David
Bowie would whisk me away
to the middle of his labyrinth

and I would feel extrordinary
passion and be somone
original and worth longing for.

I was still living at home and
unimportant in high school
in a quiet and upscale
suburban neighborhood,
where even drug deals
were as discreet as dog walks
in the moonlight.

I loved 'Legends of the Fall'
and I fantasized that I too
would cut off my long, lustrous hair
like Julia Ormond and then reach
for the pistol and shoot myself,
dying beautiful and shorn.

Then I doubled my years
and I outlived the luxury
of emotional indulgence.

I became responsible for lives
younger and older than my own.

I am not a virgin anymore,
and movies and songs
have beginnings and ends.
I am not in either of those
art forms.

I am an average woman
who loves her mediocre life
and I don't fear or lust
for death.

I am enamored with life.

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