Posted: April 21, 2010 in Uncategorized

no one ever praises the virgin or the whore;
without them women wouldn’t know they could be more
than two spread thighs or two closed ones,
living and breathing to fuck or bear sons,
both-and either-or or nothing-at-all:
virgins and whores are blamed for the fall.

i teem with the crust of a virginal lust:
the kind that never thinks of sex without trust
the kind that erects feminine pretenses
as sturdy and sound as white picket fences
but secretly covets her honest brothers
and sneaks her hands under tightly-tucked covers.

i embrace the eyesore of the seasoned whore,
who knows her place and still wants more
and can please others as well as herself
and sometimes places her pleasure on a shelf
as a homage to some forlorn liberty
for her guests and parents and audience to see.

the great irony of life is this fiction
this fixation turned cultural addiction:
we beg women to pretend they have no skin
unless it’s pure, clean, and paper thin,
or to make their desires fully known…
so judges can burden them with broken homes.

i am a virgin and a whore all my own.
i beg the world to see how well i’ve grown:
i play at coyness but i know you’re staring,
and i wear tight sweaters to start you glaring,
and either way i make no recompense:
being just one or the other makes no sense.

i’m a woman; hear me roar.
i’m the one you’re looking for.

  1. Robin says:

    Wow! Awesome poem!!! Can’t believe you produced such a powerful message, in rhyme. Great treatment of the topic.

  2. J. D. Mackenzie says:

    Complex, like looking at something from multiple angles and seeing many different things. I also caught a hint of chagrin that we expect women to be this and that, and honest and authentic and everything else. Nice mood and tone to this.

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