Hymen

I'm named Hymen,
My disappearance proves my existence.
Penetrated and destroyed,
Like the finishing line,
Crossed by the sweating glorified runners.

Some girls lose me on the bike
Or during gym class.
Some women die, with me inside.
I don’t weigh much in a coffin
Nor in the body.
People call them old virgins.
I call them –
Losers.

The penis is my rival,
A soaked cigar misplaced in a warm channel,
Brownish and smelly.
Dick, crotch, prick, rod –
It has different names.
I never remember new names.
I don't have a mind.
I have no memories.
I make memories.
I am the memory.
I’m neither on the surface,
nor deep down with the organs.
Hideous like a lurking spy,
haunting like a damned spirit.

I speak louder than fireworks,
hear better than the mute.
My body is a wall,
fragile but elastic.
I don’t know why I’m
invisible.
Women can’t see me,
nor can the men.
What mirror can reflect me?
Hy! Men! I’m a portrait of myself,
Titled with my real name.