you robbed me,
at the tender age
of non-consent and
bony knees from
something i will
never win back

and i'm not
talking about
virginity anymore

We met at a coffee shop,
her name tag read Bernice.
Painted black hair, with devilish brown eyes.
She had a mesmerizing stare, which led me to believe, possibly speculate, she was rare. “I live upstairs” Bernice said with a ****** wink.
Her shift ended at 9, I was at the doorstep on time.
Cordially awaiting my appearance,
lit candles, no hearth, no fireplace.
Sweat dripping, mucking up hard wood floors,  
A goat? Chained to the radiator sitting in the corner, loud as can be. It was a sacrifice of her virginity, the goat would watch.
I took it like it was candy, screams echoing throughout the night.
The sheets were white, now painted with blood. The goat, still kicking, making a ruckus.
I left the next morning, she gave me a quick tug. Scampering out the room, as naked as could be. A small mutter rang out,
“will you worship me?”

it's going to be weird
losing it to somebody else

It wasn’t a field of baby’s breath.
It was nothing like a garden of sages.
It didn’t go by like glitter in the air.
It did not feel like one for the ages.

It never made me feel like a new woman,
It certainly was not a call for confession.
It never had a gloomy effect on me,
And it didn’t lead me to obsession.

©Copyright 2014 Written and Edited by Racquel Davis

She had a dressing table,
Aveeno cream,
And a big blusher brush.

There was nothing sad about the scissors
But they sat there open on the dressing table,
And they looked sad.

Two canaries flew freely about the room,

So we joined awkwardly in the darkness
Under the sad eyes of scissors
And the colour yellow.

We were sweat soaked sheets and *****.
Logic drowned.
Hungry lips among naked limbs,
a comfort sought in arms found.
We were stress released,
our playful violence unrestrained.
Each wanted. Searching within the other,
never properly attained.
We are fists of hair and clawed skin,
Finding ecstasy in pain.
The hurt from one another,
cover the other scars that still remain.

The splitting pain so intense
Yet so worth the act
Fireworks exploding in your eyes
Looking down on me as we lay in the dark.
So cold on that night but
Warm underneath your skin
Goosebumps flutter over mine
As you say the magic words
That made this all possible
I reply "I love you too."
Muffled by panting and kisses.
Breaths in the January air
Common white puffs
As our bodies intertwine
Pushing your bony hips against mine
Feeling the pressure so extreme
Tears rolling down my smiling face
Feeling the soft touch of your fingers on my back,
My nails digging into yours
Holding back the screams
I can only repeat "I love you."
Knowing not what else
And also just to hear your reply.
This only occurs so long
But after, I know:
Fireworks are the most beautiful thing in the world.

I’d done a lot of drugs that summer, drank a lot, and lost my virginity a hundred times over.
David. He was the man who ****** me for the first time. He was in his thirties, a Buddhist, and a patient teacher.
In the dark, he was so ****, iron filings and gum.
But perhaps it wasn’t him that enticed me into ***. I think it might have been a combination of everything. The way his girl-faced Buddha shone by the light of a candle. The view from his window – city flowers and washing lines, Chopin on the stereo, the cleanness of his sheets, the girl in the next room talking loudly about Jean Paul Sartre.
I want you, I said.
Fifteen, I was. He didn’t know that, of course.

There was a terrible pressure when he ****** me, so he told me to
Relax
Relax
Relax
Imagine you’re emptying out
Imagine you’re emptying out and accepting something holy
communion if you like
you're catholic aren't you?
You look lovely
You feel lovely
You look lovely

There was a part of my mind that thought of girls being torn through, blood and pain, embarrassment in the morning. I couldn’t stay hard.
There was a part of me that gave in, with my knees up by my shoulders.
There was a part of me that wanted to flip him onto his back and **** him, part of me that was desperate to be a man, part of me that hated this submission.
In the morning there was no embarrassment, just cereal and ten different types of smile. Milk in bed. A lecture on loving kindness.