Wednesday, 1 December 2010



I saw a badge today with ‘I want my virginity’ back.
I could’ve bought it.
But I’m still a virgin.

It was as well as I’ve said that I want my first kiss back, as if I regret it.
But then I do.
It was experimental.
Was I drunk?
Was I in love?

I wanted to wake up the same, lying in the same sheets reeking of something else than sleep and a body lies besides mine, the covers warmer and emptier than usual.
I want to tell her to get out, have my hands in front of my face, as my actions and perverted dreams turned into reality as I close the door, the window wherever I’d kick her out.
I’d smoke.
But I don’t.
Until now, as my friend gives me one and I drag it easily,

because it’s the end of the year.
Of fucking school of the teachers yapping what the fuck should you do, when you fucking shouldn’t and tear you away from reading another chapter of Kafka or either watching some random reality show to catch up a cheesy line and laugh it out loud in front of your friends.

I have friends who are running in front of me, more girlfriends, relations lasting more than four days.

They have no on and off relations in their heads with pop stars, as the pleasure comes from a glance and the vivid dreams of the past decade wraps up the mind until it bursts open in front of a computer screen, while chewing on a pencil thoughtfully, trying to resemble some mature poet.

I saw my ex today.
The girl I’d give my virginity to.
She clinged to some guy.
I stared at her, eating my ice cream forcefully, slowly licking it up and down for a determinate look.

My friend came wearing the badge smoking and poking the badge proudly, because he’s not a virgin and he wants it back. He gave it to me saying that then I’d get laid quicker.
I could whisper it, grasping the badge and get myself a one stand,

but what for?
The letters don’t even shine.

They are bleak.
Like the possibility of getting laid.
With the consequences, blood and possibility of being a father, holding the hand through the screaming, cursing and facing where the fuck did you come from to stare at a small, corrupted reflection of what happened to your fluids, if everything went wrong
                                                                                                      or right judging the mother’s face.

I consider it a while.

I want it back.


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