I want my virginity etched on bathroom stalls. Burned lilac telling a song. Someone waiting for
the world to end will find a tune they can carry home. I’d like you to pause at the symmetry.
Beautiful when broken. Walls tainted by flesh tainted by my song. Meant to regurgitate the last
thing you ate? Blow. Blow where no man has blown before. My innards are his and his are
yours. If it tastes funny, you’re doing it right. Fingers slapping fingers swallowing tongues. It’ll
come to you how you entered this world, sick of the V between your legs. Not as fun as it
sounds. That’s what my virginity promised, burning a memory you’d take to your grave. They say
it was only one drink that got her here. Between my virginity and her past. She chooses her
past, can’t remember the first man she fucked. I do. Signed his name above my clit. You just
realize you have one. Demand a middle-aged man to make you feel wild again. He’ll come here
wondering why, shocked at the shaved pussy in front of him. I’d like a real dick please, hairy and
unapologetic. Once a month, the sea inside turns metallic with rust, everytime I brush away
their kisses. A masochist in the making. Aren’t we all? And isn’t all sex another home for
boredom? Where one life begins, another ends. Flushed remains no one wants to carry home.

M. S.

M. S.

M.S. thinks public toilets are perfect places for self-discovery if one is adventurous enough. She likes to sketch, eat breakfast for lunch and dinner, and read articles about movies. Her flash fiction and poetry can be found in various online literary journals and magazines.
M. S.

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