As I walk through your museum,
I admire all the art.
I admire the postcards and love notes
carefully stuck the home of
your beloved.
As I walk through your museum,
I wonder what time She comes home.
I see how everything in her existence
has been tainted by you,
as I quietly reassure myself it won't be soon.
As I walk through your museum,
I see you turn to face me;
and I feel my heart flutter so hard
that it must have flown out of my chest.
It doesn't matter, I tell myself,
He only wants you.
As I walk through your museum,
into your venereal grasp,
I feel your certain hands
pull away at the little modesty which remained.
You do it as surely as
a bee follows honey.
As I walk through your museum,
into that place where everything changed,
I can't help but see how
lovingly you gaze upon Her.
It's in all the frames affectionally placed
on the walls of the place, She calls home.
As I walk through your museum,
and I feel your hands begin to empty me
like a pumpkin on hollows eve,
I see Her. I see everything I knew I would see.
I see the pain at what you are doing
and I know that I have made a girl like me.
As I walk through your museum
towards the door with a choir of screams and tears following,
I remember how it felt to be a girl like me, on my first time.
And I smile,
peaceful with the knowledge that
I am not the only girl like me.
