Song of Myself, Part the Second

Virginity was this, mammoth part of who I was. I wanted to believe that I possessed something speacial--hidden. Gnostic. In fact, I was nothing by myself. Not even a whole person. I needed to be meshed with someone. For many years, I felt that all I had to offer was this sexual innoscence. Once it was gone, what was I left with? Feeling that way, what drove me to chop it up and distribute it? I seem to think it was because life was so meaningless. My dream--my beautiful, perfect world I'd created--had failed me. So I took the broken, shattered pieces of that world, and gave them away. They were useless to me now. Why hold on? I could never put them back together. It hurt a little, to see them go. Not a wonderful, brutal, tragic hurt that would have shown me I could feel. That I was real. But nothing. Emptiness. Apathy. Numbness. I didn't do school work, but I didn't quit school. I just went. Stared at the wall I guess. Some part of me couldn't let go of the pipe dream of perfect love. Part of me still believed, wanted to believe, coudln't let go of that final piece. There was no point in going on, I knew, but I was stuck here, and what did I care what happened? It just didn't matter anymore. Disillusionment left me just wanting to cease existing. Still, though, I held on to that last piece, and I hurt myeslf with it. I held it so tight, it cut me.

What does it say about me, that the ultimate life experience, in my perspective, was losing my virginity. Losing. Breaking the hymen. Hurt. Giving myself to someone. Away. And as that was all I wanted, to me, the me, as I knew her, would end. It wasn't sex, like, this thing you do, for pleasure, or whatever. It was...the climax. Glorious, effervescent, resplendent, and then, gone, taking everything with it. Like the orgasm itself--so much builds it up--the intensity, and then, it's like, euphoric, for only a moment, and then it is gone. Like...a phoenix.



I think, when I realized my perfect world wasn't going to happen for me--the happiness, church, God, meeting the God-following man with whom I would spend my life, in accordance with what, I'd assumed, God had planned--I was dissappointed. Jaded. But it was hard letting go of that final piece, of the waning hope for everything I'd imagined, felt, wanted, worked for, survived for, and been able to pick myself up off of the floor in a pitch black room, where I'd lain, sobbing, until, depleted, I dug my nails into my flesh, bit my knuckles, constricted my throat until it throbbed, and let tears that wouldn't fall be suspended until my eyes burned...for. That futile hope, of being accepted. Being wanted. Being noticed. Being used. Being loved.