Natural

We hold hands

And stand

On desks

Shouting in broken unison

About objectification

Commodification

Forced recognition

Of ourselves, our vaginas are not

Our souls.

Listen to us

Listen to us.

Do not whisper to us under

Pillow cases over mouths

In the back of trunks

Melting into the asphalt,

We get used to the way things are,

The way it feels when the waiter shakes his hand and not yours

The way daddy infantilizes us

The way your hairless fold felt when he/she touched it without your permission

Whether you were young, or young,

Or young. Because we’re perpetually young, always young,

When vulnerable, when filmed, when gazed at.

So, when I am in the shower and moaning in the wake of the most beautiful ache there is:

His glip glop still down there, running down there,

Distinguishing the lovely slick from the heated water.

And swollen, swollen, lips and heart and lips.

I am sinking deeper, naturally, biologically into a womb of womanhood.

I smile at the waiter and cling to daddy and cry in my sleep.

And being this bleeding thing, this underneath thing, this moaning thing.

Vulnerable now to his beautiful lips, his warm insides inside me.

It is irresistible this being cupped, being lifted and silenced, always slightly bent,

Over meals, over tables, over orders.

And since I’m already half way there,

I let go their soft hands,

I sit down.(poems go here)