An ex-virgin’s descent into madness

My flower

you old rascal

you stole my flower

it’s my virginity I speak of

the kind that circumcised confident Caucasian men

wouldn’t understand

you stole my flower

you old nimbus

you rained over my parade

made me into an adult

before my time

I was 19 and it was summer in my dorm

but my flower was

still barely a bud

the blossom wasn’t appreciated

please don’t mistake this to be a love-letter

please don’t think I care for your mistakes

there is an apple that grew in a garden once

and two bumbling idiots ate it whole

so we are all screwed

to feel forever this way

trembling at the thighs

a man’s touch, a woman’s breath,

a soft thigh, an impertinent brush,

what glories have we achieved

fornicating like rabbits

except to make slightly less

indecent copies of us

you old bastard

you stole my flower

and with it, the innocence of a generation

they were your bite marks

on the back of my neck

like a feral cat’s gnawing rage

you bit and spread the infection

I moaned and did partake

but the flower now rests

in a grave somewhere

of my childhood, my adolescence

and my unfinished papers

and pimple ridden friends

you old goat

there will be blossom again

in the winter this time

my dorm will offer you a quilt

and a cup of coffee

and I will lead the monster yet again

right into my bed

for some more regret

and another stupid poem.

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