PTSD

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.