her precious flower

wilts

as the clock

chimes

midnight

and her birthday

begins.

there’s nothing worse

then having all the innocence,

all the purity

and all the schoolgirl naivete

with the flesh of a sagging wrinkle

and the mind of a whore.

her bent stem

cracks

as the cherry

becomes

nothing

but a pit

rotting.

the weight

of the thorns

and the pressure

to be a sweet nectar,

a proper pleasantry,

a pair of red lips

pierce her core

and leave her

sunset blushed cheeks

crimson lipstick

and overdone, aching taste

without anywhere to go.

no longer hot, just warm.

her scaly flesh

chips

as she slumps

head

first

into her bath

virgin.