Might my body simply remain wild?
Untapped.
Might I be young for two more years,
Untouched,
Unused by any man.
Unseen.
Fallow.
Might my body be a place where virgin plants grow,
And tiny flowers.
Wind songs that sing for no ears.
Might I remain uncultivated
Wasted on emptiness and quietude.
While no man knows the beauty of my waist
And no man’s hands enshroud my hips
Where no man’s mouth touches my skin.
Might I be beautiful
Supple, strong, soft and ripe
Unplucked, untasted, unknown.
Unloved but lovely
Flowerng on my own.