A Woman, Deflowered

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Abstract

ma of experience hangs heavily in the balance of oxygen replaced with touch and feel she remains there pulled into his mood in altered forms as he quietly steals a part of her</p><h2 id="467a">Background Context</h2><p id="9454">I don’t remember the first time I had sex. Losing your virginity is one of the most important moments of a woman’s life, and I don’t remember the act of doing it. I know that it was a cold Wednesday evening in December. And I know who it was with.</p><p id="d5ee">But I also remember the walk I took outside after it was over; I knew my entire reality had shifted and my world had changed. What was done was irreversible, and somehow, I found no joy in the deed that was done. It wasn’t about the sex. It was about the fact that I hadn’t waited to have it.</p><p id="5a62">I planned it. Scheduled it. And carried it through. It wasn’t momentary, it was monotonous. It wasn’t organic, it was manufactured. And I wasn’t ready, I was just willing. Somewhere deep inside of myself, I knew a mistake

Options

had been made.</p><p id="a0a6">My impatience has taken a toll on my body because now I struggle to cope with the anger and sadness I live with over wasting such a precious virtue. If I had waited, if I had known that I could, it could have been so special. Special enough to remember. Instead of it being pointless enough to forget.</p><div id="c42c" class="link-block"> <a href="https://readmedium.com/sex-was-the-only-time-i-felt-loved-db9b3dec83fd"> <div> <div> <h2>Sex Was the Only Time I Felt Loved</h2> <div><h3>But he didn’t love me he just liked me enough to fuck me</h3></div> <div><p>medium.com</p></div> </div> <div> <div style="background-image: url(https://miro.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:320/1*6WmSYx4nxx_2o1crYgH1VA.jpeg)"></div> </div> </div> </a> </div><p id="1b3e"><i>© Linda Sharp 2024. All Rights Reserved.</i></p></article></body>

Free verse poetry

on his sheets stained and dissolving in the lamplight, there she was with smiling eyes in a taboo atmosphere an image of makeshift glamour waiting for the sun to leave her alone alone to the night’s devices and a man who will harm her through easy agreements her choices become typical covert compromises are made in the abandonment of light advantage is taken reasonings aren’t right two become one she fades into obscurity in the whispering hours the aroma of experience hangs heavily in the balance of oxygen replaced with touch and feel she remains there pulled into his mood in altered forms as he quietly steals a part of her

Background Context

I don’t remember the first time I had sex. Losing your virginity is one of the most important moments of a woman’s life, and I don’t remember the act of doing it. I know that it was a cold Wednesday evening in December. And I know who it was with.

But I also remember the walk I took outside after it was over; I knew my entire reality had shifted and my world had changed. What was done was irreversible, and somehow, I found no joy in the deed that was done. It wasn’t about the sex. It was about the fact that I hadn’t waited to have it.

I planned it. Scheduled it. And carried it through. It wasn’t momentary, it was monotonous. It wasn’t organic, it was manufactured. And I wasn’t ready, I was just willing. Somewhere deep inside of myself, I knew a mistake had been made.

My impatience has taken a toll on my body because now I struggle to cope with the anger and sadness I live with over wasting such a precious virtue. If I had waited, if I had known that I could, it could have been so special. Special enough to remember. Instead of it being pointless enough to forget.