Antique

The ironic fixation on the words of a fixated lunatic,

It was men who created virginity not women,

Now dancing in my head with every new encounter.

The word attracts men like flies to shit,

Praise flows like blood from their mouths.

"That must be hard, with all the temptation,

Do you want to lose it? I'll show you."

Excalibur has nothing on a woman's V-card,

And lines around the world pop up, eagerly

Awaiting a chance to try their hand and take

What they don't deserve and shouldn't have.

The desperation makes any fraction of a chance

Dry up and disappear, though it never stops,

No one ever stops trying for something.

I don't lie because there's no need to lie about gold.

No one pretends they don't have something sacred

Even if it no longer feels sacred once everyone knows.

Once people are pining to take what you have,

What wasn't precious to begin feels cumbersome.

Someone's ass falls onto the oyster and the pearl

Quivers and begs to be safe again, free from pressure.

You can't pry open an oyster and expect more than a glob,

And if you give up something before its time,

It will be a tchotchke in someone's closet, collecting dust.

Yet, the longer you hold something perceived as valuable,

The more people come racing, begging for it.

It can get "too old", with the cobwebs hiding the beauty

And the lack of outsiders constantly evaluating its worth.

My card is chained around my neck, glimmering,

Winking at those who want it but never leaving me.

I don't know what I'll feel when I finally lose it

And some asshole has it collecting dust with his others.

Maybe I fear that the white will never be the same

Once it has been used and soiled for the first time.

Maybe no one will come around anymore and marvel,

Maybe there will be no more arms to break afterward.

Maybe I won't care because it will go to someone special,

Or maybe I won't care because the weight is off of me.