The first time I took my mom's makeup while she wasn't around, it tasted like foolishness and smelled of old-smelling perfume and lipstick that didn't go with my eyes.

The first night I touched myself, I did not find whatever pleasure the other girls snickered about. Its aroma a lot like flowers pressed into old books and its pain like a slap on the wrist.

The weekend I didn't go home didn't live up to my expectations. I stank of stolen ***** and hickies that didn't belong on my skin.

The first seconds I laid my eyes on you, I drank you in as much as I could. Your eyes, your lips, the shadows and lockets you kept behind you.

The minutes ticked in, you knew I was no saint, but, boy, you were just like my very first taste of sin.