But I Am A Virgin.
Girls were born
To be nothing
But virgins,
Ready to be soiled
By our men,
And then judged
By any others,
Including our own.
And virginity?
It does not lay dormant,
Soley between your legs.
It is found
In any of your tissues.
Any of your actions.
Any
Of your mistakes.
I am a virgin,
By choice,
By strict definition,
Alone.
This body?
It has never
Been visited
By man,
Nor woman,
Nor anyone other
Than myself.
It is my temple.
It is sacred.
No one may worship,
Until I allow it.
So I am a virgin.
Right?
No.
Because I am impure.
Girls are born,
Made of lace,
White lace,
Wrapped tightly around our skin.
We're bound in it,
And the whiter it stays,
The more respect we earn.
Of course,
There are our dusters.
The boys who want us
To drop our panties
Onto their floors.
The boys who touch us,
And want us
And tell us
That we are nothing
Unless we touch them back.
They leave spots
Of dust
Against our lacey white,
Staining
The delicate print.
Soiling
Our virginity.
Anything
That we touch
Any contact
It takes away
Some virginity
Or another,
Be it vaginal,
Or otherwise.
When it's gone,
It's gone,
And you will never be
That pure again.
I'll tell you of a time
When there was a boy I know,
With short blonde hair
And he loved me
And his respect
Ran which
Found out my lungs
Are not so virginal,
As they were back then,
For they've seen smoke,
And they've clenched in its swirls,
And this all happened
Because I,
Willingly and knowingly,
Put my lips
To that pipe,
And breathed it in.
But I am a virgin.
But I am not
A virgin
Of that variety,
Nor will I ever be.
I can never say,
"No,
I have never been high.
I'm clean."
It's been ruined.
Soiled.
And for that,
I am less white.
A spot on my lace,
That catches
That boy's eye
And makes him narrow
His own gaze
Down at me.
Judgingly.
But I am a virgin.
But I am not.
I have been rejected,
And it has hurt me,
Brain down to heart,
And still, it may,
But it has boiled
And so
I've soiled,
For I've acted
On the desperate coils
That it makes
In my stomach.
So never can I say,
That no one
Has never seen
Beneath my bra,
For it would be a lie.
Was it sex?
No.
Did it mean
Anything more
Than confidence
And lust?
No.
Am I a virgin?
Yes.
But no.
For I was born to be of lace,
And my own lace,
I've torn,
And it will never
Be as white
As it was
When I was born.
To be nothing
But virgins,
Ready to be soiled
By our men,
And then judged
By any others,
Including our own.
And virginity?
It does not lay dormant,
Soley between your legs.
It is found
In any of your tissues.
Any of your actions.
Any
Of your mistakes.
I am a virgin,
By choice,
By strict definition,
Alone.
This body?
It has never
Been visited
By man,
Nor woman,
Nor anyone other
Than myself.
It is my temple.
It is sacred.
No one may worship,
Until I allow it.
So I am a virgin.
Right?
No.
Because I am impure.
Girls are born,
Made of lace,
White lace,
Wrapped tightly around our skin.
We're bound in it,
And the whiter it stays,
The more respect we earn.
Of course,
There are our dusters.
The boys who want us
To drop our panties
Onto their floors.
The boys who touch us,
And want us
And tell us
That we are nothing
Unless we touch them back.
They leave spots
Of dust
Against our lacey white,
Staining
The delicate print.
Soiling
Our virginity.
Anything
That we touch
Any contact
It takes away
Some virginity
Or another,
Be it vaginal,
Or otherwise.
When it's gone,
It's gone,
And you will never be
That pure again.
I'll tell you of a time
When there was a boy I know,
With short blonde hair
And he loved me
And his respect
Ran which
Found out my lungs
Are not so virginal,
As they were back then,
For they've seen smoke,
And they've clenched in its swirls,
And this all happened
Because I,
Willingly and knowingly,
Put my lips
To that pipe,
And breathed it in.
But I am a virgin.
But I am not
A virgin
Of that variety,
Nor will I ever be.
I can never say,
"No,
I have never been high.
I'm clean."
It's been ruined.
Soiled.
And for that,
I am less white.
A spot on my lace,
That catches
That boy's eye
And makes him narrow
His own gaze
Down at me.
Judgingly.
But I am a virgin.
But I am not.
I have been rejected,
And it has hurt me,
Brain down to heart,
And still, it may,
But it has boiled
And so
I've soiled,
For I've acted
On the desperate coils
That it makes
In my stomach.
So never can I say,
That no one
Has never seen
Beneath my bra,
For it would be a lie.
Was it sex?
No.
Did it mean
Anything more
Than confidence
And lust?
No.
Am I a virgin?
Yes.
But no.
For I was born to be of lace,
And my own lace,
I've torn,
And it will never
Be as white
As it was
When I was born.