I realize that I have not shared an original poem with you all in quite some time. Writer’s block is partially to blame, but I’ve also been working diligently on sending my poems out to various literary magazines. You know, to see if I’m as good and as talented as I’d like to say that I am. So, without further ado, here’s a poem recently rejected because it sounds too much like prose, lacks lyricism, and has no purpose in the enjambment, or the arrangement of the lines. But I’m not mad. Not mad at all. *proceeds to rip out heart . . . *
[Sigh] We writers can be too sensitive.
I Don’t Want to Die a Virgin
Is it possible to meet Death before life even starts?
Before discovering one’s womanhood?
Before smelling, touching, tasting the sinful pleasures of sexual desire?
Is there such thing as virgin mortality?
I don’t want to die a virgin.
I want to exchange dirty details of the night’s adventures
With my girlfriends at school
While applying lip-gloss and eyeliner in the bathroom mirrors.
I want to practice our moves at the lunch table
On bananas and lollipops,
Show each other how to properly arch our backs,
And create innovative ways to ride
That boys have never seen before.
I imagine how losing my virginity would be
If Death could delay his mission for one night.
With no time to search for the ideal lover,
I would have to settle for the baddest boy in school.
He’d walk up behind me at my locker,
Grab my waist and
Whisper in my ear that he wanted to take me out Saturday night.
I’d scribble my number in red ink onto his palm and
Sashay off to class.
That Saturday, I’d spend hours debating
Whether to wear a dress or pants,
Finally settling on a ruffle mini skirt,
My ass playing peek-a-boo in the wind,
And a wonder bra to enlarge my breasts two cup sizes,
Causing them to burst from my spaghetti strap shirt.
The outfit would scream, “I’m available!”
He would arrive thirty minutes late,
Pull up to the curb and honk the horn, letting me know he was outside.
I would flee from the house in a blur,
Not wanting my father to meet the boy who would be
Deflowering his little girl that night.
We’d go to the theater first.
Later that night I wouldn’t remember what movie we chose to see.
We’d sit in the darkest corner of the furthest row.
He’d kiss me, tasting the butter and Coke on my lips.
He’d then proceed to suck and bite on my neck,
His hand inching closer to the hem of my skirt.
The movie would end just as he’d begin to
Caress between my thighs.
We’d rush from the theater,
Drive to an abandoned parking lot
At the edge of a forest.
He’d play light music to set the mood,
I’d wait for him in the backseat.
We’d butt heads a few times,
Trying to remove each other’s clothes,
Then he’d remember that this could be done
By simply unzipping his pants and
Pushing my panties to the side.
It would start off cramped.
He’d complain about not taking his Pop’s Cadillac instead.
I would suggest doing it under the stars, and
He’d conveniently have a blanket in the trunk.
We’d settle onto the forest floor under the cover of the trees,
The stars peeking through pockets of leaves
To see him push further inside,
His sweat dripping from his nose into my open mouth
As I let out sharp, shrilling, shrieks,
Digging my nails into his back and
Grabbing at patches of grass around me,
Trying to hold on while he went faster and deeper.
He’d take a brief intermission to sloppily kiss my lips
While spreading my legs further apart to give him more room.
He would climax first.
I’d take note of how quickly I made him come.
He’d rise, fumbling with his clothes and
Return to the car to start the engine.
But I’d remain on the blanket,
Gazing at the stars and their constellations.
Virgo would not be one of them.
He’d take me home shortly after.
Kiss me on the cheek,
Lie that he would call me later
But I wouldn’t care—
Both our purposes served.
I’d sneak into the house,
Try to pretend that I didn’t hear my mom ask how the movie was
Or my dad inquire about the purple marks on my neck.
I’d rush to my room,
Fall into my bed,
Close my eyes, and
Relive every moment of that night
Before Death swoops in to
Claim me for his own.
**This poem was inspired by something a girlfriend in high school once said at the start of our senior year.