Virgin

Mon, 12/15/2014 - 15:15 -- baty

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Who remembers what it’s like to be a virgin?

The last of a dying breed to get the seed demonstrated by a lonely hormone’s empathy,

 

I’m sorry but I don’t get that reference.

 

 All these ménage a trois and stories of late nights spent with third wheels,

and catching someone in eight inch heels,

to ride in a taxi and foreclose 8 inch deals,

 

somehow I missed it.

 

Is this why you invited me every other night for two weeks

to come by after work to see a dumbass movie,

and I tell you I’m tired but you repeat back to me,

 

you said it comes naturally

 

I’m sorry that I didn’t note at your preference

when you asked what I’d like to cook for breakfast

and I said a huge skillet of rejection,

but c’mon baby you know me.

 

Just leave me where I stand.

I know the truth ain't that grand,

but there will be plenty more nights with your right or left hand;

I’ve heard you’re easy.

 

So ask me what I’m doing tonight,

and call me at three in the morning

because your sweet whispering

means nothing.

Your excitement doesn’t entice me.

I promise

I’ll never leave your bed feeling emptier than what I’d be

if I were to slide in like the innocent flower but be the serpent underneath.

It’s as if you think you actually gave a f*ck more than you wanted to get one.

 

As if the bond between us could somehow grow closer

If we were intertwined in a field of thin bed sheets and lace.

As if making love could’ve created love that wasn’t even there in the first place.

Like waiting until I’m sure would make me fall further from grace.

And you asked if I was one of “those people”.

 

I’m not a tease,

Not a sleaze,

haven’t come and gone with the breeze,

never been so unsatisfied but pleased to tell you

I’m a f*cking Virgin!

Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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