there is a subway between my legs

My vagina has been recalled. I’m having a difficult time finding a box big enough or deep enough to send it back. How many stamps will it need? Should I include a post-it of instructions. How to treat it. I want to know if it will be discarded or distributed as recycled paraphernalia.

My cunt is a Basquiat graffiti tag…

I was recently asked to draw it. What does it look like and should I be thinking of shapes like diamonds or triangles rather than New York skyscrapers and underground trains. It’s been awhile since I used a mirror down there and it was tiny and borrowed and barely allowed me enough of a reflection to see far in.

My pussy is an incorrect charge on a credit card slip.

I think I was supposed to draw a flower like O’Keeffe or something drenched in pink like genitals doused in Pepto Bismol. I used a black pen. There is no need for colour. I want to imagine it like a silent movie in black and white and grey tones. Perhaps it is accompanied with a score by Phillip Glass or Yann Tiersen. It is barely friendly, more like a wallflower.

My vagina is an octopus with eight opinions.

And do I need to be connected to it and should I have a bond undisturbed by the ghostly fingerprints ruining its posture.

“I’m not quite sure we are on the same page body (sometimes). I need some time alone. I want to walk around today undisturbed. I am looking to try out some other options. I need you to be okay with this. I don’t want to pretend. Today…today…today I just want something else to be there in your place.”

My cunt is a hibernating bear defying routine. It is a reduced price sale item. Call it pummelo or clementine. Call it an elephant manuscript.

This does not have to be about gender. This does not need a doctor’s slip. Don’t post this. Don’t ask me what I mean when I ask you to call it a thistle blister. Today, you are a 3 train heading uptown. You’re mussed and written on. There are too many men in here. I kick them out. There are crying babies; I kindly ask them to leave. Anyone else still on, I push out too. Now, you are an empty train. My vagina is an empty train. I like it that way.

if i remain too still/ i may forget why i started this


Are scars just an alphabet that can be erased with proper creams and rubber eraser tips?

Is boredom the cause of collapse?

I never understood….

I never understood the logistics
of matching bra
to underwear
when floor wears it
so much longer
than breasts do

winter wind gathers the ghost of her

photo by Francesca Woodman

My orthodontist, who touched my teeth during the ages of ten through thirteen, smelled of rubber and adultery. He called my lips names like small and difficult. He tried to stretch my mouth further than it could possibly open and I left with sores on each side. He pushed wax against my teeth and told me to bite down. Tried to implant my imperfections. I’d lay in the slippery pastel colored chair, which bent backwards for easier access into my miniature pink mouth. As he inspected my braces, gums, timid tongue, I thought about all this metal trying to fix me.

Try to fix me.

What I was and what I am engage in a battle. Now, I am grey like an elephant and wrinkled and heavy. If I were Amadeo Modigliani, I would stretch out these stories over various couches and gouge out the eyes to blind away the endurance of pain.

love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love

Love grows inside me like a fetus that never moves on that only develops fingernails and eyelids but not lungs or cerebellum that feels guilt for its preference to masturbate over conversate.

{a whisper}
My belly lies against red cotton sheets with limited thread count. I am crying. My fingers smell like my insides. A salt and vinegar soak. I am desperate for an orgasm, instead, my brain channels memories inappropriate for fucking.

{a reveal}
Andy Flemming throws a three-piece dissected bee at me in science class. I am twelve. He calls me a screen door and I watch the severed insect slide down my paved chest. My three best friends have elevated breasts, regular periods and body hair. They prefer tampons to pads and waxing to razors. There are no bras in my wardrobe. I wear undershirts. If it weren’t for my nipples, I’d have no idea where my tits are.

How do bruises fail our bodies?

Do you REALLY want to know how these DENTS got here?
Are you ASKING me why my cupboards are filled with condoms and
do you WANT to know how many times I’ve climbed walls shaped as humans shaped as beds shaped as paychecks?

Strap magnifying lenses against each pupil and stare into the abyss of nearsightedness

{a message}
If you loved me, you would revel as my pubic hairs flossed between your teeth.
When you go down on me, prepare for choke and swallow of curls.
Let my cunt be your dentist.

Call me a gentle recluse
Or mismatched experimentalist

I will remember the days when nothing occurred and you can tell me I’m wrong