But gifts are not supposed to ache.
Missax — that ache you left unnamed. That scar shaped like a question mark. You taught me that virginity isn't innocence. It's just unlived life crystallized into a single fragile fact. And facts, when held too long, turn to stone.
And now it sits between my ribs—not pure, just unused . Like a letter never mailed. A song never sung into a microphone that might crackle back.
Mine is a room I’ve lived in too long—walls I’ve memorized, a bed still made with hospital corners, dust gathering on the threshold no one crosses. They tell me to be proud. That patience is a kind of power. But power doesn't tremble in the dark wondering if it's still power when no one asks to hold it.
I have worn this word— virgin —like a second skin. Some days it feels like armor. Most days, it feels like a splinter.
They call it a gift, this thing I carry. A ribbon of waiting. A lock without a key yet turned.
I'm not broken. I'm just waiting — and waiting has become its own kind of ghost.
But gifts are not supposed to ache.
Missax — that ache you left unnamed. That scar shaped like a question mark. You taught me that virginity isn't innocence. It's just unlived life crystallized into a single fragile fact. And facts, when held too long, turn to stone. my virginity is a burden iv missax
And now it sits between my ribs—not pure, just unused . Like a letter never mailed. A song never sung into a microphone that might crackle back. But gifts are not supposed to ache
Mine is a room I’ve lived in too long—walls I’ve memorized, a bed still made with hospital corners, dust gathering on the threshold no one crosses. They tell me to be proud. That patience is a kind of power. But power doesn't tremble in the dark wondering if it's still power when no one asks to hold it. You taught me that virginity isn't innocence
I have worn this word— virgin —like a second skin. Some days it feels like armor. Most days, it feels like a splinter.
They call it a gift, this thing I carry. A ribbon of waiting. A lock without a key yet turned.
I'm not broken. I'm just waiting — and waiting has become its own kind of ghost.