Mine is a room I’ve lived in too long—walls I’ve memorized, a bed still made with hospital corners, dust gathering on the threshold no one crosses. They tell me to be proud. That patience is a kind of power. But power doesn't tremble in the dark wondering if it's still power when no one asks to hold it.
Because a burden, even a sacred one, still bends the spine. my virginity is a burden iv missax
I want to lay it down. Not dramatically. Not in a poem. Just quietly, on some Tuesday, with someone who doesn't want to take it but simply be there when it falls away like a cloak I never needed. Mine is a room I’ve lived in too
I have worn this word— virgin —like a second skin. Some days it feels like armor. Most days, it feels like a splinter. But power doesn't tremble in the dark wondering
And now it sits between my ribs—not pure, just unused . Like a letter never mailed. A song never sung into a microphone that might crackle back.
Because the truth is sharper: it's not the absence that burdens me. It's the presence. The constant awareness. The way I measure every glance, every almost-touch, every moment I pull back when I wanted to lean in. Not out of virtue. Out of fear. Out of the strange shame of having saved something no one has ever tried to take.
Missax — that ache you left unnamed. That scar shaped like a question mark. You taught me that virginity isn't innocence. It's just unlived life crystallized into a single fragile fact. And facts, when held too long, turn to stone.