Plucked

This poem is about one young woman's view on casual sex and the lost void she's trying to fill after her first love.

 

Delicate bruised flower, purple and swelled;

not mine. His. Theirs. Anyone. Hallow

even when filled. A sensitive patch

of nothingness.

 

Not genuine or true. What’s never pure

was never mine to begin with. A sort

of hand-out, if you will. Anything

to make a broken heart feel what it once had.

What it used to know.

 

Not love. Only lust, now.

“I love you” became “I want you under me,”

and “Baby” became “just another girl.”

Time heals everything, except ripped petals.  

Reviews

[WhiteWillow]

Wow, intense poem. Such a fine line between love and lust, when you're in the moment, and its your first. Great write!