Sylvia's Sex Chronicles Pt 1© Poem by Tsbiyah Bat Yah

A demure Geisha aching to be deflowered. A catholic schoolgirl dying to be exploited. A ripe fruit primed to your liking. Modesty blushed...You wooed me with your perpetual aura of mystique. Your bulging phallus contingent on the corruption of my morality. The rough incursion of your stranger wilting defenses. Caught in your meretricious web you invade the pride of my saccharine tangerine with the amiable spur of your majestic septer. Pneuma projecting from my body I watch you ravish me savagely. Like mirrors on ceiling. Noumenon suspended in the air, numb ardor spawning primal consummation. Reflecting the barbaric defilement of my damsel in distress. Inveiglement infectious. With the sudden deflation of my breath and its instant return. Up, up and away you take me. Resuscitated Angel. Prodigality ubiquitous, felicity reciprocated. The hymen is torn, innocence diminished, an addict is born. A connoisseur of cloy you are. Transforming me into the woman I was destined to be. Your discipline emanating the thug in me. Preying on my naive mien. Curiosity killed the cat. Consider my pristine lamb a casualty. Underestimated. Your initials engraved in my cervix tattooed by the arterial flow of the ink in your quill. The indoctrination of your penmanship biographical. DNA indenting my diamond mine. A coital infinity. Mourning the bereavement of my callow. Of course you asked permission but as a young mind should I trusted your judgment. Because you've been around the block a couple of times and knew a thing or two about right and wrong. How could I with this naïve mind make such inquiries when you were clearly doing me a favor? Why would such an accusation cross my mind? Still wet behind the ears adults had to still guide me false pretense I guess I could not nor did I want to believe so one so close to home could hurt me and it feel so good at the same time it was impossible nothing felt wrong about it because I did not know. Ridiculous even only something so foolish as that could be imagined made up and fabricated by a child. And I was only a child. What I feel and think and do say means nothing I have no foot print on the world. I did what I was told. I was good at it. That is what a child is taught to do. Listen. I was only as significant as my parents allowed me to be.