THIS V WORD
As an art mart, Instagram, healthily counterbalancing its nartcissistic tradition of writers & emergency poets being entrapped in the bermuda triangle of love, loss & longing, also features as a near-pyrrhic reward, artists who somewhat arrived late at the initiation rites.
Worthy of note is the realisation almost all of literature, and by consequence, life, is hooked on this thematic trifecta, but the intellectual aesthetic of the poetic microcosm has it that the witty-but-shitty, the pretty-but-petty reigns sovereign, posing the champagne problem between artists(your guess is as good as mine it’s the puritans) of what art is and isn’t.
I reserve no intent here of lending weight to any side of the see-sawing scale, rather, i’m here to spotlight one of such writings quarantined against the epidermic elaborated above.
In this most cherished writing i regard at once needed & necessary as to the moral sanity and reality of now standing on a foundation of bones and sand-filled blood, Desolape expresses a sentiment butting heads with the sickening sexstacy which has come to(with an ambulance alacrity) define the youthful collective conscious.
It spans below:
On a fine night in January, you realise that this thing, this virginity, it doesn’t belong to you. Neither does it belong to your mother who says your body is the temple of God. What does she know? Wasn’t she pregnant with you on her wedding day?
It doesn’t belong to the church. You can bet the choir master has bedded half of the ushers and choir members. Nobody holy pass.
It belongs to this boy. This one who has turned your insides to liquid with his fingers, this one who caught you in his arms when you melted from his kisses, this perfect gentleman who is now asking to take your flower, as your mother calls it.
His eyes are shining with love and desire for you. You. Of all people.
Later, in November, when your heart is encased in pain and shame, you will wonder if that shine in his eyes was really from love. Or a triumphant glint. Or a gleam of the madness that will slowly ruin your life.
But it’s January now and November is just a month on the calendar, far far away.
So you stare into his brown eyes and whisper yes.
Yes, he can take the gift he was created to receive.
Yes, he can take all of you because you were never much to begin with.
Written by The Anonymous Cherif
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