how many have met you
with their lips
or fingertips

or their pumping blood ***** attached to their hips


how many have seen your redness
how many have felt the blood you bestow
each month

it trickles
like water down cave side walls



my cave
how many have seen you

and not wanted to touch

why do they always want to touch


I curl inside my cunte
on days when my heart stops beating
anvils on my eyelids
keeping everything out of sight


so i don't look
i touch


I feel
the words
the whispers
upon my skin
the hair of my mons crawling like Medusa's crown

snakes, serpents
slithering


around
whatever is put inside

I will ****
if anyone touches me
again

I have to protect
myself