Nostalgia for what hasn't Permaspired

PoV: a black hill. She knows it's a hill b/c carlights outline the rim. Rocks crunch beneath her feet. When cars angle down she sees the stones ridge-lit like asteroids eclipsing suns.
"Tea"'s a necessity at parties. It loosens the tongue, dances through a body, and emboldens passions.
The weaning-off sobriety hasn't worsened boys' judgment enough to make her a worthy sheath.
She sits: a red ribbon hanging with no scissors closing to clip, an acre awaiting excavation while gold shovels are carried by, a whole hymen.
Every woman has a hole in her heart that nothing can fill save Jesus. Those same women have holes unfulfilled by Jesus.
Were she wealthy a man may aggressively take the position of boy toy.
Were she pretty like girls grinding or slutty like women ground down she'd have her fill.
But she leaves the strangers' get-togethers, never a straggler.
When she walks in and shuts the front door her home closes in on her. Its' grid-pattern windows gritty panes in a solitary prison cell.
She has sighs and head-hanging where tears should slip.
She imagines alternate routes she could have tried: a teasing blame.
What pleasures she has had are tasteless as white bread.