Innocence

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.