Culture | Inkwell: pussy is mine

my vagina is anxious and depressed, and relies on suppositories. It has a manifesto and seeks peer review and validation.

 

It watches labiaplasties in the middle of the night, on youtube

stares at the pieces of skin just sitting on the gauze, no blood, looking like roast beef

hands and feet are the sweetest flesh, but my vagina bets labia is the most bitter,

from all the kegels it’s done and because in the beginning i worked so hard to be acquiescent, and now im afraid to stop.

 

my vagina smiled, one day long ago

in dance class, with a fan kick

my teacher said/you only do it right,

when your vagina smiles

and when we put vaseline on our teeth

our vaginas smiled too, in quietus

 

when do our martha-stewart-style queefs rain confetti down upon us, and when do we become phenomenal?

slime mold has 13 genders, but the slime that leaks from my vagina has only one, and there is suffering

for i have known the sighs already, heard them all, for all the hairs poke from my perforated flesh, like ears, and i have been roofied and i have battened down for rape.

For i have seen the fears already, and others grief is so much worse; it’s older and empirical, and mine is only mongering.

 

i wandered in from another kind of fantasy

and i was grown to be of use

so i walk fast at night.

the vessel was made to be filled, and wear all kinds of hats

and im trying to be magnanimous

so when you stop to ask me for directions and then try and pull me into your car

i feel guilty

because im a slut and love to fuck and i’m not picky

there is drudgery in my vagina, and there are state laws, mandatory delays, and biased counseling

its reactions are wrong, and it exists on the cusp of a complete and utter nervous breakdown.

and the rotting seed of a long-dead zeitgeist still rains from the sky

 

there is a dissonance between what i say and others feel/and

my womanhood is quiet in its folds, and it will kill itself

 

i’ll follow you/ i’ll follow you/ into my vagina, and when you’re done i guess i’ll follow you out and then get lost

as i am/ i am quiet/ in my roundness, and see half-glorification in starvation and demi-preservation so that i can rely on my potential, never to discover that perhaps it isn’t even there at all

 

my mind mewls for less smite, and my vagina for someone to touch it,

and it hums

shlick, shellac, bang bang/ we’re in the sexy business

i shine, right?/ cause i grind

 

so suave and impossible

and they all taste the same

this morbid self obsession, female confession

i profess, and regress

because that which impressed upon me/is empty

and eggs get personhood, but mine is so wrapped up

i grow old, i grow old, i shall wear my inner labia rolled

to keep in all the darkness

 

i am woman now, so why compare?

I am woman. stop there.

 

this pussy is mine/i think

i think this pussy is mine


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