PTSD

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They want my pussy, but not my pussy’s trauma

or 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 and 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 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 it's “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 it’s pain.

Trauma is aroused at the sight of me in pain and 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. Pussy without conscience.

Pussy that’ll settle for 3:46 am. Pushover pussy without the humanness

attached. They want my pussy, but I always come attached –

 

trauma included, my soul and scars never sold separately.