Blackjack

Society proclaims me to be of age. An adult, it seems, for four months.

And yet I know I'm quite the opposite, utterly inchoate of matters carnal and practical. I am a mere dilettante in the theories and interests that so permeate my academia. An absolute infant when it comes to dealing with the opposite sex.

I have never been kissed. In keeping at arm's length men–and yes, men, because those that surround me are of other predilections or preferences–I do not know if it is to protect me from the hurt that rejection would bring, or the standards I long for are nigh too ideal. For the longest time, I've labored and hid under the impression of a conservative upbringing. There is that, yes–but it is not as constricting as I would have others believe.

I cannot keep the friendships I've held so dear. What worse can it be with a supposed man I might spend my life with? You say, date, what harm can it do? I reply, much. I can love far too easily.

Society calls me an adult. At heart, I'm still that naive little girl.

A Strange Sorta Fairytale

It would be strange to think of myself as some sort of Jezebel, a temptress with scores of men at the crook of her finger. It would be bizarre picturing me as an angel-faced beauty, ludicrous to think men flirting for pleasure, or asking for my name or number, or even drawing me as their goddess.

It would be harder, still, to imagine myself in some sort of romance story, a protacted courtship over modern post--the eccentric yet "charming" girl, and the confident, intelligent gent toiling continents away, who haven't seen each other in four years.

It sounds like a recipe for a a fairy tale, which is alarming.

How much love can there be if the girl-woman is certain her otherwise Romeo is a Don Juan of international stripes, and she is no longer interested besides? There's not much chance if the poet doesn't even recognize his maybe-muse in their last face-to-face appearance.

No happily ever after here.

Earth Angel

Someone once told me I had an angel's face, a living, breathing china doll of innocence.
     I ingloriously snorted.

A friend, upon looking at my school identification cards through elementary, high school, and college, said it's as though I haven't changed a bit.
    Still she of the smooth chubby skin and naive eyes.

Strange, though, how different I feel now. If I am an angel, I am fallen..or an angel teetering close to the cloud's edge, waiting for someone to drag me down.
    I'm sick of being caught between innocence and desire.

    I wonder if one day, I'll see him in singing,
    and it will make me cast off my restraints and my looms,
    and climb down from the tower,
    and lay down on a boat
    and meet him in death.