My Virginity Is A Burden Iv Missax [new] May 2026

And now it sits between my ribs—not pure, just unused . Like a letter never mailed. A song never sung into a microphone that might crackle back.

I'm not broken. I'm just waiting — and waiting has become its own kind of ghost. my virginity is a burden iv missax

Because the truth is sharper: it's not the absence that burdens me. It's the presence. The constant awareness. The way I measure every glance, every almost-touch, every moment I pull back when I wanted to lean in. Not out of virtue. Out of fear. Out of the strange shame of having saved something no one has ever tried to take. And now it sits between my ribs—not pure, just unused

Mine is a room I’ve lived in too long—walls I’ve memorized, a bed still made with hospital corners, dust gathering on the threshold no one crosses. They tell me to be proud. That patience is a kind of power. But power doesn't tremble in the dark wondering if it's still power when no one asks to hold it. I'm not broken

But gifts are not supposed to ache.

I wanted to give it once. Not for love, not for God, not for marriage. Just for me —to stop the counting. To stop the way I flinch when friends laugh about their first times, their bad ones, their funny ones, their strange ones. I have no story. Only a hallway. Only a door I keep polishing instead of opening.

They call it a gift, this thing I carry. A ribbon of waiting. A lock without a key yet turned.