thunderstorms.

deflowered

"that's a beautiful flower," he says,
and brushes his fingers against it modestly.
you can see the hint of want in his eyes,
but you don't know what to think.
"thank you," you reply sweetly,
because you've heard those words before,
but they seem different from him-
special?

"could I have a petal?" he asks,
and you know where this is going,
but you let him pluck one anyways,
and that's the most you've ever given, ever.
"okay, now no more," you say,
because that's what you're supposed to say-
right?

"come on, just one more," he says,
and you hesitate, but he flashes that smile
that could crumble prison walls,
and it works; he reaches for another,
and you let him (why?),
but your flower is still pretty,so
why not?

"wow, i love them" he says,
and looks to you, and you feel something (what?)
you feel it all over, like he's watering your flower,
instead of collecting its beauty,
and you feel as if he's becoming a different person;
one you can trust?

"give me another, i promise you won't regret it".
you really want to keep your flower whole,
but he convinces you (but how?),
and you let him- and again-and another-
even when it starts to hurt,
should you make him
stop?

"amazing" he murmurs,
and suddenly all your petals are gone,
and he's looking at the beauty in his hands,
then back to you. you feel a soft emptiness,
and hope and pray with all your heart
that he'll still want you
deflowered.