I am the anthem of every anti-virgin,
of every person whose maidenhood was stolen too soon,
their glass vial falling to the floor and shattering into more pieces than we like,
allowing the white smoke to escape.
We are half-notes,
scattered without rhythm,
swaying softly to the songs between our ribs
while our legs explode like fireworks.
Living in the world is a beautiful thing.
We tell our stories in moans and sighs,
tight lips spilling pink lemonade
and loose legs to welcome you home.
After washing off the butterfly tears and rhinestones,
we descend upon a sheet of velvet
and transform into intricate swirls that spell out blessings for all the men we loved
and curses for the men arrogant enough to love us back.
And when the pages dry,
we lick them shut,
and take a trip to the moon on gossamer wings.
Anyone can be God if they try hard enough.