Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
solc liveson Jun 17
we lay together, 6:00am, body warmth touch-sharing,
as the June morning summer chill coming off its night nadir coolness
surrenders very reluctantly,
full length pajamas, blankets and coverlets in use,
keeping cold out while bodies touching generate heat -
a big difference

through these layers of cotton controversy, my right arm,
my cunning, falls awkwardly upon her, advising I am woken
and aware she is as well, hear her earbuds emplaced, make shushed
whispering noises re the future of artificial intelligence
and other such mental knottings

my awkward angled arm rests on her landscaped outline of shape,
coming to rest where legs meet at the top of an upside down V spot,
which makes no request, but accepts my bequest of steady
stroking of her ****** as an unnecessary
but atheist-acceptable to her
morning prayer ritual, kept at the intersection of the
physical and physics theorems

funny how some prayers,
where recitation comes thoughtlessly and routine,
uttered without any contemplation are yet
deep comforting for their inherency,
so I pray a stroking repetitive on her body,
well hid neath a summer coverlet,
wordlessly chanted, wordlessly accepted, silence connoting approving permission

I comfort her,
above and through a floral coverlet for her floral coverlet,
till the sun rises enough to truly warm up our plot,
my praying reaches the end of its rope,
where quality and quantity achieve unanimity resolution
no longer needed,
but am appreciated, besides my arm is cramping,
not designed for the rising, unleveled angle of her breathing bodice

my comfort is her extra comforter,
an offering of coffee my reward,
for my daily work has begun,
and I have many more poems stillborn
that require coaxing stroking
to become
witnesses to living
The blood in my ****** runs on the pure waters of the river
The blood in my ****** smells rotten like the person who ***** her
The blood of my life runs on the white of the cloud ...
The blood in my ****** smells like the baby I abhorred
The blood in my ****** smells like the curse of being a woman in the world without equality
The blood in my ****** smells like the mouths of women stifling rights
The blood in my ****** smells like ***** girls
The one of my life smells bad like the men who force their daughters to marry
The blood in my ****** smells like *** of ****** exploitation
The blood in my ****** smells bad like pedophiles.
The blood in my ****** smells the future. The blood in my ****** is female liberation.
within the red is life unwoven
an unknown that rests undefined
before it knows it’s end
it leaves traces of its redundance in the shape of senseless tremors
and restless quivers
that leave me paralysed in time

the blood curse 
the ritual of unborn futures  
it leaves me thinking  of
slashing the bonds of my abdomen
for the bittersweet release
of this cascading trauma
will leave me unmade
and free from bloodfilled womanhood
Kitana St Cyr Jun 2018
The smell of my fluids excites me
I wait for the day it won’t be from just my fingers,
But on your nose too.

Before I run my hand softly across your face,
Make you wonder wild,
How is my natural scent is so purposefully designed to attract YOU ?

Allow me to make you live for memories before they’re created
And of this one in particular,
My scent
The scent that calls for white wine kids
Let me refresh your neurons.
-your sence of smell
-olfactory sensory neurons
-found in a small patch of tissue high inside the nose
-connected directly to the brain
Muted Jun 2018
on a crisp, clean morning in the fall of 2008,  i was happy.
i walked to class, textbooks in hand.
I could almost feel the earth shifting underneath my doc marten's.
I was ready to showcase my new haircut,
reaveal my new and improved self to the world.
I'll never forget when the handsome, bright eyed boy who sat behind me in first period told me that
my hair wasn't supposed to be short. After all, I am a girl.
You see, from the very beginning, I was taught that having a ****** made me "just a girl".
Made me just a maid.
just a cook.
just a someday wife and mother.
just a dainty, pink ribbon.
just a punchline.
just an orifice,
this
is an ode to the parts of me
that no soul has ever truly desired to understand.
this is working just as hard as a man.
this is ******* with the lights on,
assuming my position,
stepping away from the kitchen.
this is burning my "big girl *******" and going commando, instead.
this is scrubbing his DNA off of my body and reclaiming it.
this is creating and birthing new life,
a generation of girls who aren't
just girls.
When you exist in a world
where you are instructed to keep your mouth shut,
your strongest desire is to open it,
as wide as a cavern.
Here, where we are told that we
think too much,
feel too much,
love too much,
we long to be enough.
this is being enough.
this is learning to love myself.
this is finding comfort in my body,
despite all of the glass shards
i find myself plucking from it.
this is loving myself into
an ******, so heavy,
that it makes me feel
like a ******
is the most profound thing
a person can have.
Muted Apr 2018
curled lashes
sprout from
my
feminine eyes
that
fail to greet
the pair
seemingly locked
on my chest,
the
rose petals
crushed between
my thick thighs
aren't as
fragrant
as you'd
expect,
yet
still you
become *****
at the thought
of kissing my neck,
or painted,
plump lips
wrapped 'round
the **** of
a cigarette,
because you
believe that
i am delicate,
fragile, frail,
gentle, elegant,
have faith
that ill give you
a piece
of myself
because
women are
affectionate.
porcelain dolls,
painting fair
faces,
***** hose,
silken legs,
draped in
thin laces,
encased within
a box
sealed with
a pink ribbon,
and
men are
responsible
for all
we've been
given,
they say
we can be
strong
if first,
we ask
permission
that our place
is in
a kitchen,
raising children
in the home,
raising men
that are grown,
settling for
mediocrity
because
we fear
being
alone.
a
******
is a curse
and
we're blissfully
unaware,
we walk
the same
earth
and breathe
the same air,
god forbid
we cut
our hair,
but only
from our heads,
for
they say
that
we must
shave our legs,
so they
look
nice enough
to spread,
not unlike
the
falseness,
propaganda that
they spout,
but
subservience
is not
what
womanhood
is all
about.
Next page