pussy is poetry.

this is for the women
who were taught to dim-
clench their sins
inside their hips
and starve their flame
to swallow spit.

allow me to speak what you forgot:
your body is not a bruise to rot.

it is the fucking plot.
the pulse.
the prologue and the twist.

the ink-soaked altar
of all that fucking exists.

you weren’t made to be managed.
you were made to be holy.
to be the sermon that splits
the sky down the middle
and births a new god
from your body.

your pussy is the rain
that made the garden grow.
it is the ache that knows
how to outlive pain
without needing 
anything to show. 

this is the law:
you are allowed to scream.
to bloom.
to bite.

you are not obscene.
you are unseen.
and I have come
to make you known again.

i’ve touched god
with two fingers
and a breath
in between my legs.

i’ve wept into my own flesh
like a priestess
who finally stopped praying
to be saved.

i no longer beg.
i bloom.
i don’t bend for love.
i consume.
i don’t wait to be chosen.
i fucking choose.
and i choose you, woman.
to remember
that your ruin
is your muse.

so let them call you wild.
reckless.
too much.
unclean.

this body
has never needed fixing.
only witnessing.
so we re-write.

with wet fingers.
with spit-stained light.
with every man who swore
he’d treat us right
but only came
to taste what he saw
the first night. 

no more softening.
no more shrink.
you are the ink.
the flood.
the heat.
the link
between the dark and the divine.
the spine of every sacred line
they were too afraid 
to read out loud.

but I will say it,
and say it proud:

pussy is poetry.
and your pain
that was the rhyme
they could never find

so you
fucking 
became it.