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.
I want to lay it down. Not dramatically. Not in a poem. Just quietly, on some Tuesday, with someone who doesn't want to take it but simply be there when it falls away like a cloak I never needed. my virginity is a burden iv missax
I'm not broken. I'm just waiting — and waiting has become its own kind of ghost. And now it sits between my ribs—not pure, just unused
They call it a gift, this thing I carry. A ribbon of waiting. A lock without a key yet turned. on some Tuesday