they want my pussy
but not my pussy’s trauma
and its torn walls
a fresh coat of Coral Fountain Pink paint chipped at
and tagged over by the cold hands and dirty fingernails
of a destructive intruder —
who got off on being unwanted
who got off on the way my body froze
still & stiff limbs collapsed
as my chest completely concaved
and swollen, purple lips spit “no”.
my cherry —
an uncooperative hostage shot.
his forced entry
left my panties and sheets soaking
in the color of church wine.
–
they want my pussy
but not my pussy’s trauma
because trauma is not black, silk, and lacy.
it’s tightened grip around my neck doesn’t make my insides melt
or leave me dripping all over the bed like honey.
trauma doesn’t call me “Honey”, just its “Bitch”
it doesn’t whisper how gorgeous i am
only that i’d feel better if i weren’t so tense.
trauma is a cockblock, foul and heavy
it leaves the air bitter and watches as i suffocate
on the chalky dryness of its pain.
trauma said it is aroused at the sight of me in pain
& repulsed by my own skin.
–
trauma is hideous
but boys like their pussy pretty
pussy without narrative or history
pussy without baggage
pussy that isn’t afraid to get beat up,
that won’t push away when it starts to get rough
pussy that heals them,
a warm home for their pathetic nights
pussy without emotion
pussy without boundaries
pussy without a consequence
a pussy without a conscience
pussy that’ll settle for 3:46 am
a pushover pussy without the humanness attached.
–
they want my pussy
but i always come attached
trauma included
my soul and scars can never be sold separately.
