Eufemmism

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If pussy doesn't mean feline, but instead,
means pusillanimous and weak,
I am not that.
No form of cowardice crowds
around my panties.
You will not find any bastardization of woman
on the moistness of my fingertips.

I refuse pussy as femininity,
as the arched back of feline,
as myself.

Call yourself weak,
understand sex as an object to be stolen,
never given.
Gender role is a form of separation,
built of Adam's rib segregation,
because I celebrate my vagina.
Pussy on a pedestal like peach-fire juice
and your recognition of worth versus want.
How much do you want me,
how much am I worth?
I believe in free enterprise sex
and your cock-envy skews demand
as if supply doesn't have to be consensual.

As if size equals dick.
Penis is not a breed of profanity,
like dick or pussy or cunt.
Vagina and Penis are equals in science text,
but those words don't stiffen nipples like others do.
So what is wrong with america?
If abuse can make you hard,
and I am taught to play along,
what is wrong,
with america?
The subtle perversion of pornography
is frightening, when you consider yourself manly.
Chasing pussy,
imagining cunt as derogatory.
Assigning douchebag as an insult,
underestimating period blood;
a moment of cleansing.

There is a street in London
named Gropecunt Lane,
and I wonder what Jack the Ripper thought about that.
I wonder how I can reclaim masturbation and cunt
as something holy,
if I can call my two fingers a crucifix
and you cannot call me a whore.

If there is such a thing as double standard,
I would hope that it means
I get to come twice before you do,
I would hope it means that you could be a feminist
and I could just be woman.
That I can do what you do,
without the burden of labels
or locker room talk.

You have to understand,
sexism is hiding in the intricacies of your father's breath,
slowly like the heavy tear of your mother's
wooden spoon or black eye.
Slowly like climax
and learning pleasure for each other.
Like the slow wind of your tongue
every time you say cunt or pussy.

Slowly like the groping of my own cunt
and the history of words I owe my sisters.
Like the space between our breath,
shallow and proud,
in the rise of my moon-breasts,
heavy in the mushrooming of your dick,
and the wet peach-fire of pleasure.
Slowly we come
to understand.