The Virgin's Monologue

The word is not french nor does it contain

four letters alone, just three make its name.

Yet all of my symptoms resulting from it

resemble reactions to fuck, damn, or shit.

Not at the action, my anger surmounts

but at the people who use it for pride to surround.

I'm on an island alone in a sea

of swimmers and divers all laughing at me.

Taking the plunge for them was so small.

It was fun. It was free. No reason to stall.
I'm begging for patience, though not on my knees.
(I'll never emit desperate pleas.)

It's barbed wire boundary is one I can't cross.

Not now at least, but all hope is not lost.

I've been asking in earnst, this thing for a while,

has waiting for love gone too far out of style?