Words, or lack of them, funnel docilely through
pubescent dreams of crowded boys-
deflowered, stretched, stolen,
fucked in the mind of them-
beauty at the idea of her, a treasure
to be toyed with.
Writhing cartilage slips through sweat-and-deliberate
lubricated hands, falling through themselves-
consumed in their fingertips by the lush idea of her,
manually spreading her legs- as if screwing open a vice;
tight and untouched, moaning and squeaking,
rusty as a first-time,
in their imagination.
Breathing deepens, like tides of air- condensing, ebbing, flowing,
climaxing, harder, harder, softer, shriller.
As they melt into themselves,
spill themselves onto their own naked chests,
allegedly with this girl, this beauty.
Touching her breasts softly, twirling their fingers taughtly
along her legs, beneath her thighs, to the place
where part of her will be buried, where part of her will be
liberated, damaged and taken-
roads of sweat leading grudgingly to the soul of her:
Christian corruption on
beds of after-thought flowers- transcending notions of immaculacy
though respiration and significant lies.
Breath slows, emitted as guilt-stained smoke-
lips open in passionate gasps of simulated satisfaction
to hopefully fill the empty just pilfered-
by shedding a shred of their masculinity upon their legs
to show their friends that they don't live in shadows
And this girl knows nothing. Sits, cross-legged, skin cascading
down a mahogany church pew-
embodied with the inkling of saving herself. Hemmed to fit
the ideals of her beliefs-
to stay a rose for as long as she can.
And this girl knows nothing.
Knows not that she has been fucked, once, twice, five-hundred times before-
in the minds of these boys. That they have sprouted and sprayed themselves
for her. At the idea of her.
That she's been sexed, and stretched, groped and taken,
clothes a puzzle beneath her,
a conscience-pillow to rest her body; lithe and limp.
Where she can be fucked, like clockwork,
can be cleaned by the tongues of those who maul her,
peel her open, and lead their fingers to the place beneath
her thighs, that they will soon fill with dreams-
where she can be ravaged and removed:
raped, over and over.
This girl, she knows nothing,
cross-legged and pure,
in a church, rosary beads entwined about her fingers, like
holy weeds, binding, constricting her hands shut,
like a divine vice to remind her not to welcome anyone