By Christina Phillips, Junior
I hate the way they call virginity ‘innocence.’
As if sex is the thing that strips a girl of her
purity.
As if it wasn’t ripped from her shaking hands
the first time she was yelled at, either
by a woman demanding she wear
more or a man demanding she wear
less.
As if, when she was taught long division
and geography and that her body
existed to be a distraction, all in
the same breath, she had a hope
of holding on to naïveté.
As if her mother hadn’t bought her a
push-up bra before a box of
tampons.
As if she’d never heard the bitter way her
father spoke of people who
looked like her.
As if her first kiss hadn’t been stolen
before she was ready to give it.
As if sex is the very first time a woman
is made to feel unclean.
Innocence isn’t virginity. Innocence is poached.