Vaginas and clitorises and lips,
cut to pieces, ripped open,
stitched up, closed up,
torn apart like dispensable junk.
Hanging bits of flesh
falling to the ground
and blood-soaked thighs trembling,
shaking in anguish.
Smell the dehumanization,
taste the mutilation:
metal, tears, blood, dirt, and sweat
between your lips,
A vagina, treated worse than a toilet:
things shoved up there, seized out,
forced in: sharp knives, rough hands,
oiled guns, splintered brooms,
metal handles, thick rods, angry fists,
broken bottles, bruised egos,
men’s patriarchal muscle hanging
from their legs thrust in.
Females from the equator
to the prime meridian
hold back, embarrassed –
believing what we’re told:
our vagina needs to be
pink and pretty, like a petunia
and smell like one too –
no imperfections: no knicks, no bumps,
no characteristics or signs
of human flesh –
look like a doll: fake, plastic,
an inanimate object, quiet.
Grandmothers, mothers, and daughters
grandfathers, fathers, and sons
believing this is the only way to
raise a girl –
this is the only way to be clean
To enjoy sex is wrong,
no “illicit” sex for vaginas.
Virginity! Virginity! Virginity!
Our vaginas need to be
soft and taste charming,
like vanilla frosting.
Watching men lick the sugar off
their foul fingers,
smiling at their crazed notion of victory,
dictating: a mangled,
is painfully beautiful.
We’re taught beauty is pain –
men need to suppress our sexuality
because it’s too strong –
pricking, piercing, incising,
scraping and cauterizing.
They can’t violate humans rights
if they don’t consider you a human.
More articles by Category: Arts and culture, Feminism, Gender-based violence, Violence against women
More articles by Tag: Activism and advocacy, Poetry, FGM