To the boy who I almost lost my virginity to,
What were you thinking?
You see because the first time you tried
I thought that maybe the excuse that you were “just a boy”
And who can really blame a teenager for his
raging hormones over a blue-eyed girl just wanting to feel something
anything at all…could be used.
But then again, it was the first time we had ever been alone together.
The second time you tried
I could barely remember my name.
That morning when you came to pick me up,
Gas fumes pouring from that fire-engine truck
you drove a little too fast,
I thought I had a choice.
But when you took me to hangout with your glassy-eyed friends
on a couch that had more cuts than my left wrist,
it was clear what you expected me to do.
I inhaled green-tinted smoke through a water-filled bong
and flew high enough to touch the clouds.
You seized your chance and led me to the bedroom
with a serpent-like smile.
It wasn’t even your bed.
The third time you tried
You finally got a little taste of what you wanted.
We were drinking vodka on your bedroom floor,
loud music blaring so your mom wouldn’t hear
our slurred sentences folding in on themselves.
Your kiss tasted like nicotine and marijuana
and you spilled the vodka on your ice-blue carpets
when you lay me back.
You took my shirt off, claiming I’d get sick because it was wet.
And I bought into the only concern for my well-being I had ever heard.
“I love you,” I whispered,
my chest was heaving from the weight of those three. little. words.
“Show me.” You replied, your tone wrapping around my throat
and your hands moving down past my flimsy denim barricade.
You were satisfied just to touch
but you never said you loved me back.
The fourth time,
you called me a tease for not letting you go
“All the way”.
Your eyes stared at me like I was satan,
ignoring the tear stains on my cheeks
from everything I had already given.
I wasn’t “good-enough”
and my sobs on the ride home tasted like the tequila
that was making my head spin.
The last time you tried,
I was ready.
So ready to give myself to you hoping
maybe it would make you love me,
We undressed in a frenzy, my heart racing in what
I thought was anticipation
but was only weed and cigarettes.
We were so. close.
And as you moved to claim me you whispered,
“I love you,
Ten minutes later,
you were yelling “You fucking slut.”
Out of your window while I walked down the street
with no shoes and my shirt half-buttoned.
I had to call my cousin to come get me from a gas station by your house
mascara smeared on my face.
The next day,
you left me ten voicemails
and texted me thirty-eight times.
“I didn’t mean it.”
“I love you.”
“What did I do wrong?”
“You mean everything to me.”
“Goddamnit answer me.”
On and on and on and on and on.
But somewhere between
a bad breakup song
and ten shots of Yeager,
I realized that your words really were cheap
and I am really fucking glad I don’t have to say you were my first.
Because when I do finally lose my virginity,
I won’t have to be drunk to let him touch me.
And when I moan his name,
I won’t be faking it.
macklemore: “don’t shit on other people just because they’re of a different race or because of their sexuality.”
the world: “hey, lets shit on macklemore because he’s straight and white; therefore he shouldn’t be spreading a good message because he’s already privileged.”
What if you wake up one morning and you’re in bed with the love of your life and they have their arm around you and their snoring like a fucking ass hole, but you can’t help but to smile and you hear a baby crying and it finally hits you, you’ve made it.
you beat the demons inside you, the voices, the darkness.
I look forward to that, to knowing I made it.
this deserve so many notes