People like to draw clean lines; chalk on pavement. You’re either white or shadow, holy or held, a closed door or one swinging wide open. But I live in the hallway. I haven’t walked through every room, not the one with the bed and the final word.

But I’ve opened windows. Let in winds that stirred the curtains of my soul. I’ve handed out whispers, pressed sighs into palms, said “maybe” when I meant “I’m lonely.” I let fire kiss skin I wasn’t ready to burn.

So no, I’m not a virgin. Not in the way mothers mean when they bless your back. Not in the way a clean sheet holds no creases. But I haven’t been claimed, not all the way. And somehow, that space matters, even if the world laughs at shadows.

Sometimes I miss being rainless. The innocence of dry skin. Of not knowing what it feels like to be thundered into wanting. To lose your breath in someone else’s hunger. To say “stop” with a voice already soaked in “yes.”

I miss not knowing how soft betrayal can feel, like silk over a bruise. How the body can answer before the heart learns the question.

I am not ashamed. But pride has teeth, and mine has gone quiet.

I want love. But I want the crown too. To be chosen, yes, but not while breaking my own name in two.

Now I know: craving is not weakness. Guarding the door isn’t madness.

So no, I’m not a virgin. And I haven’t had sex. Both things can wear the same skin.

I am still whole. Still folding into healing. Still learning the language of quiet strength. Of softness that does not apologize. Of silence that still sings.

This is my truth; messy, sacred, and mine.