Walking the garden of men’s desires poem #12

I’m tired of writing poems about my pussy.” I tell him.

He nods, not in agreement, 

but in understanding, 

meaning, 

he hears me, 

he’s paying attention to my words.

He knows I’m about to go off.

I’m about to explode all over him, 

let him hear what my brain can’t contain. 

What is this reclaiming I keep hearing about?

What should I reclaim?” I ask him.

He smiles.

Nothing. You’re perfect.

Bless him for loving deep and unabashedly. 

Bless him for loving me, like I love him,

deep and unabashedly.

I want to learn where I’ve hidden this prowess.

Where is it?

Did I ever have it?

Am I a victim of thievery?

Did someone steal it?

Did someone pluck out my jewel?

Was I asleep?

WHERE IS IT?

I try to seduce myself into hypnosis by eating a whole bag of chocolate covered pretzels while watching a woman who weighs 90 lbs. devour four burgers, fries, onion rings and a cherry coke on the internets.

This is America.

I must’ve lost it here, right?

In America.

I had to have. 

I look at my hands and wondered if I had rubbed it gone?

I had rubbed myself so much, I wondered if I had corroded it?

Eroded it.

Deteriorated it.

Corrupted it.

Rotted it.

But no.

I could still feel it.

Mostly when I woke in the morning, 

or after three drinks inside dark bars.

After writing a poem.

Yes.

After writing a poem about my pussy.

That’s when I felt it. 

When I held my warmth in my hands.

When I remembered how cruel others had been to it,

and when I say others,

I meant me.

I meant me.

I meant me. 

It was there, 

on my fingertips,

and on the corners

of his mouth.

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