i'm sorry daddy.
forgive me for my negativity,
for my sullied soul,
for my impure thoughts,
for my dirty body.
for my innocence
has been taken away from me
and from my heart.

White represents purity.
White represents innocence.
My pain casts a shadow and stains anything within reach.
Ink flows with in my veins, only when i open up does the ink dry.
Staining my soul.
Innocence is lost with every drop of ink.

When I was
seven years old
I crept down our stairs
in the dark
it was just about midnight
on Christmas Eve
and I
wanted to catch Santa Claus
as he put presents
under our tree

When I was
fifteen years old
I laid on his bed
in the dark
it was in the evening
during the summer
and I
nervously waited for him
to shove his penis
inside of me

I hid
near the fireplace
anxiously awaiting an arrival
hands clenched into tight fists
giddy with anticipation
waiting in the dark

I spread
open my legs
feeling pressured and defeated
the TV blared so that
his mom wouldn't hear
my hands clenched into tight fists
I didn't want to touch him
but I
waited in the dark

I didn't see Santa Claus
instead
it was my parents
shoveling presents under
our tree
my verbal exclamation of shock
and betrayal
led to them disciplining me
for sneaking around
in the dark

I didn't look at him
instead
my eyes wandered around
his room
gazing at the guitars and
posters and
the closet and
even the TV
he ejaculated and
left me there, cold
in the dark

At school,
I told all of my friends
that Santa Claus wasn't real
I wanted everyone to know
the counselor pulled me aside
and said that it wasn't fair
for me to take this
from the other kids
it wasn't right
it wasn't my place
"Let them stay innocent
a little while longer."

I didn't want anyone to know
when I lost
my virginity
tears bubbling at my waterline,
I looked at myself
in disgust
It wasn't fair.
It wasn't right.
It wasn't his place.
Except there was no counselor
for me to speak to
only the sound
of water droplets
falling
as I cried in the shower

I thought that
I lost my innocence
when I found out
that Santa Claus wasn't
real.

But
this IS real
and hurts
so
much
more.

Your skin
felt so warm
against mine,

every inch of me
collapsed,
dissolved into
nothing but
pleasure
coursing through
my molten veins

Your being
was the key to
the unleashing of my spirit,
the tear of my innocence,
the flame

to an ice cold soul

It smells like first love
Says the perfume bottle
Smells like true love
Says the bath bomb

What does first love smell like?
First love smells like rain
The heavy scent of the air
Before a thunderstorm

True love smells like cookies
Baking in the background
And a rich pot of coffee
Brewing from fresh beans

And of cinnamon in hot chocolate
And lavender, like my lotion
And spice, like his deodorant

First love smells lightly of sweat
Because you're nervous
True love smells like tears
Because it's never a dry-eyed affair

It smells like the flowers
Of the wedding bouquet
And the crimson and white
Christmas flower display

First love smells like body spray
Slathered on to hide the sweat
True love smells natural
Bad breath in the morning
And yet fine
Because it's theirs.

First love turns to sweet summers' air
Vanished with August's last week
True love kisses the scents
Both foul and fair
That break upon my cheek.

I remember the days
when everything is just so innocent.

When I need to get some breast milk,
I cry.

When someone makes funny faces
and stick out their tongue out their mouth,
I laugh.

Everything is as simple.
Not a word meant another.
It is as it is.

It just so happened that as I grow up,
everything turned out to be so complicated.

When I was a kid,
Pussy meant cat.
And now I see cat faces printed in front of panties, in women’s lingerie, in bikinis.
I see it being sold online as I scroll in my twitter account.
If pussy was a tourist attraction, it would probably be much visited than Disneyland.

When I was a kid,
Bitch was a female dog.
And now, everyone turns out to be one.
Go on! Laugh out loudly!
Instead of saying “Hi!”, we say, “Hey bitch! Wassup?”
Not that it is meant literally,
it just seems to be a part of out language now;
an expression.

When I was a kid,
Dick was a name and BJ was a nickname.
Oh come on, you already know what that means.
But for those who don’t, just look at your seatmate’s…
Uhhh… nevermind.

When I was a kid,
Screw was a nut.
And now, it is censored when it is said in movies.
Toot you!
And it was just “Screw you!”

When I was a kid,

Bang was a sound,

Rubber was like plastic,

Ass was an animal,

Tit was a snack.

All of which sounds so pervy now.

I work with words all day.
Is it the words or us who change?

Words seem so nasty now.
Inappropriate to say.

And I wouldn’t be shocked to know that during a Mathematics class in a 4-walled room at the 2nd floor of that building next to us,
The teacher asked, “What are sets?”
S-E-T-S
A student, a 7th grader undoubtedly raised his hand, stood up and answered, “Intercourse po.”

And I knew that even the wrong meaning fits the wrong word.
That even the youngsters are already exposed to those words.

When I was in 7th grade, sets meant a collection of elements.

When I was a kid,
Sex meant gender.

He chose me first:

before, while we were still swaddled in youth
wanton blood-rush still pink in our cheeks
whatever juvenile features he saw, he knew
And so thought his half-blind naïveté

-he chose me.



I chose him second:

for I had not come of age, nor had I dared
to crave the closeness of him as of before
I loved the sweet, innocent love we shared
And waited til I could call upon my own newfound memories of yore

-I chose him.



He chose her second:

impatiently he forgot the warmth in my arms
so his sickly fickle emotions swept her away
he replaced my deep love with her shallow charms
so I finished my race
and crossed over too late

-he chose her.



I chose him first:

the words I say to her retreating shape
merely a silhouette against a crimson sky
I long to call out- he was mine first, too late
these, the words that silently in anguish, I cry

-I chose him
too late.