Because I am obsessed with vagina dentata, pubic hair and lesbian

Every new lover.

It started with my first girlfriend when I was 15. She teased me relentlessly about my obsession with her huge fluffy bush.

I remember running my fingers through her thick gleaming pubic hair for hours, relentlessly amused and inflamed by how it made her pussy demure. How a swipe in one direction revealed, one wrinkly brown labia minora, another way a flash of deep wet mauve.

Once after hours of me staring and stroking I told her in all seriousness that her bush could hide the secrets of the universe. And that I would find the answer.

She laughed.

While I laid my cheek on her soft brown belly she told me a story about witch queens who grew teeth in their cunts to keep greedy white hands off of their fine brown flesh.

I napped as she spoke, her words sinking into my dreams.

Now I am an adult.

My bush is not as glorious as hers but I am still obsessed.

Every new lover.

I lay for hours between their thighs, combing with my fingers. Exploring with my fingertips to learn the secrets of the universe.

I search shy labia into pouting glistening fullness.

I explore the crenulated surfaces of every lover’s cunt in hope that someday I will stumble upon the one.

My twin witch with teeth manifested to keep greedy white hands off of sweet brown flesh.

My own cunt whispers that she is out there, the one with a bite to match my own.

Until I find her.

Every new lover, every new lover.

Every new lover.




Inspired by a poem by my friend Dena Rash Guzman. 

Also by my own ridiculous 3 week menstrual cycle.

I see you Joseph.

Your eyes ask questions, reflect your horror.

     I. See. You.

Somewhere inside- let the ancestors speak and whisper fear into your conscious thoughts. I can see it in your eyes, Joseph.

I see the shake in your fingers.

I see your lip curl in distaste and see you try to smile.

     I. See. You.

28 days.

On time I wake up a predator.

I dream of rubbing my palms between my bloody thighs.

Declaring my dominance and territory with bloody hand and ass prints.

     I see you Joseph.

You are too much a man to run.

Too little a man to fuck me until the pain is gone.

     I. See. You.

30 days.

I will eat or fuck what I kill.

I will cry into my pink bathwater.

I will curse my bush.

     I. See. You.

I will ruin your sheets.

& fuck up your car.

I will bleed on everything you think is yours.

Eat. Dream. Bleed. Destroy.

     I. See. You.

Run, before I bleed on you too.


Dearest Joseph, I want to tell you a story.

Come lay your head on my belly,

Listen, listen.

Once before and again in the future I did not belong to you.

I and my Mother and your Mother and our Grandmother’s belonged to the tide of blood and scent. 

We dragged you boys kicking and growling into the upright position and onto two feet.

Don’t shudder dear, don’t be afraid.

Remember my love, bloody pussy brought man up from the waters, out of the muck and down from the trees.

Just think, some day our sons, and their daughters and their heirs will know to follow the trail of blood up the evolutionary ladder.


I will pretend that the blood on my hands is from the throats of my enemies.

I will ululate and raise my hands to claim my emotional victory.

Anat bless me.

Fuck  the God/esses of chaotic fertility.


The following is old.  Written from a prompt that originated from The Rumpus I believe.

A Gift of Lady Things

The gift was just a pair of ratty used to be black sweat pants and six dollars. I felt like I had just gotten out of jail as I was standing on the corner of 3rd and Pine, I was lost and more thankful than I had been in a long while.

I was young and broke. I had a job that paid just enough for rent and ramen most weeks. That week however my phone bill and the postage I’d needed to buy meant that I couldn’t buy the two things I needed more than my phone or stamps.

I started bleeding on the bus, while headed down town to try and sell some books and CD’s; I felt the blood seep all over everything. My panties were sodden, my pretty skirt was ruined and there was a wet stain on the fabric bus seat.

I was the last person off of the bus and I told the driver I was so sorry about my mess, I offered to clean it up and he was very kind. He smiled at me and said it was okay, he asked in the kind of delicate way that made me know for a certainty that he had daughters of his own, if I had lady things.

I had no lady things.

I knew that at home there was enough change in my jar for bus fare to and from work until my next day off; there was enough canned soup and ramen to last until next payday had no toilet paper. I had no tampons. I had no pads- I had nothing except the blood running down the inside of my thigh.

That man, that kind man gave me the sweatpants in his bag. They smelled vaguely like ball sweat and were the best thing I had seen in days. He gave me stacks of napkins out of his bag and turned his head while I cleaned my seat, my legs and where I’d bled on the floor. There were enough paper towels to staunch the blood for long enough for me to find somewhere to buy tampons.

I didn’t cry while I was still on the bus. I managed to hold it in until I walked to 3rd and Pine where I stood weeping like a lost child. I never saw him again.  When I could afford it, I gave five dollars to a woman with a bloodstain on her pants just in case she had no lady things.




I think about force. Bodies crashing together like cars. Muscle thumping against muscle, the violence of eroticized catastrophe. A thin trickle of blood, sweat rolling between shoulder blades and darkening bruises under focused eyes.

Teeth bared,

Muffled curses, invocations.

Bloodlust fueling quivering exhausted attacks.



I am jealous. That is what I want. The fist, the neck crank, the hot breath of my enemy on the back of my neck as I am ridden to the ground.

I will watch.

I will burn.


Do you Hate me yet?

Hidden behind my

wily black eyes. I hide all

the truth you can’t bear.


I will tell you a

lie so sweet. So true. You will

want to sell your soul.


Inside the orange light in the city I am held tight in a safe embrace. The low piss smelling alleys keep my secrets. The rats look away, and I pretend I can smell the sea. Squabbling addicts cover the sound of my tears. Here I can cry and keen. Muffle my ululations under the scurry of night life.

Here I am only another miserable soul; hungry for peace I will never find.


I tell my wandering feet to take me home. Travel West towards dark water and restless waves.

My feet- they lie. They sing their own Judas Song.

They tell me to step East toward oblivion. Forever taking me into the rising sun.


If I said I loved

truly beyond my scope. My

truth would die and drown.


She told me she could show me god.


I remember everything. Her soft hands, the look in her big black eyes,
the sound of my breath entering her- I remember every centimeter of
her. As her hands closed around my throat she whispered her love
against my lips, I felt the warmth of the presence of God from her mouth.


Before her I was lost. Wandering around the city

She guides me into the promised love and immortality with those hands.
I died gasping, gape mouthed and in love with my God. As she kissed my
last breath away I entered her and to live inside her sweet mouth

There was no goodbye.


I will show her I love her.

Devour the taste of fear as it rolls off of her skin.I will roll my tongue across the soft peach of her cheek to collect her tears.

I will show her I love her.

Pull her inside me, engulf her.

I will show her I love her.

When her hands wander to my throat and try to flutter away I will hold them there.

I will show her I love her.

The spread of her cunt as she tells me she hates me, reminds me of ravens spread and screaming from barren Winter trees.

I will show her I love her.

I will love her while she hates me, through her love and hurt and rage. I will love her with my teeth, my need, my blood.

I will show her I love her.

I love her…I love her…I am loved.


In the beginning I ran. I ran away from the lead heavy gaze of hate filled men. I ran from women in nice clothes with sick pity on their lips spattered like drunk vomit. I hid in plain sight. I played the most demure, the most exceptional, the most helpful and quiet Black woman. I played their game and walked away with my lie tucked away in my heart. I made them feel safe-

until now.





The face of our Mother lives in stone.

Her cheeks are pitted, the slope from her forehead to her mantle of stone and time.

Mother is as we are taught carer, lover, destroyer.

We kneel.

We chant.

Our devotion is a social construct, built upon wetness and hardness.

Ecstasies known only to ancient poets and mad women.

We are cunt and cock.

We are the atavistic concupiscence of a million worlds.

Mother is ever calm.

Mother is ever vigilant.

As our love erodes the ridges of her lips, the bump of her nose.


Mother save us.

Mother love us.

Mother fuck us.

Mother destroy us-
before we destroy ourselves.