Love, Lose, And Repeat

Finding Virginity

She lost it laying on a bed, pretending she was road-kill, like an armadillo--dead. like she was run over by a stick-shift Ferrari, that blasted Katy Perry, and sang along to it with a voice that sounded like sin.

She lost it to a boy playing Jason Mraz on a mandolin. Running hands up and down her crawling skin, chasing stories down rivers. Tipping wine glasses and poisoning their livers, like Huckleberry Finn. Until she lost control of her knobby knees and gave into him.

He lost it to a girl he knew like a foreign road sign, that he travelled anyway. That he would say he was just exploring her unterrained and untravelled territory. That the sign, when translated, said: she kneels, she peels, then she wheels.

He lost it to a girl, he worked on like a science fair project. He wanted the red ribbon prize for using the right materials and knowing how to mix chemicals to get a bang. He kept eyes on other experiments and looked for ones with better presentations and more sizable props to trade her for.

She lost it bathing in sweat, naked--on white, polyester sheets, seeking a bathroom. She stepped on his soccer cleats and tried not to swear but the pain climbed up her acid-reflux throat to coat the inside of her with sickness. It burned when she breathed and she couldn't stand the sight of the chemical mix running down her rubbed-dry legs, so she heaved.

She lost it to a boy who would never fall for her, who she didn't want to, even if he could--even if she could, even if she didn't know about the other girls and the other numbers in his phone.

He lost it to a girl with numb hands, who couldn't have a conversation without starting a fight. Who he said looked cute in red sweaters, who snuck out of his room in the middle of the night.

He lost it laying on a bed--like they all do. They swap the same stories. The same girl is written on the same bathroom wall in red marker. She loses it to the same boy who took the marker to the stall and threw her up there to be called.

They all lose it to a bed, not to the back of a coat closet with the scarfs and leather coats. They lose it like the tonsils in the back of their throats. They can't have it once its gone. The more they give, the more they lose. Where they put it--that's the only thing they have to choose.