She says this, my black diva, those words she said.
My vagina shrinks. That is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard and I disagree.
“I love other women.”
Words I haven’t said out-loud to myself enough times to understand. Instead, I write poems — formulas to ease understanding.
The first time a man touched me with his Brillo Pad fingers, I was five. The last time, I was 21. At 16, I asked a boy to hold my virginity. He held it in between his ring finger and thumb — it’s not new, he said.
I agreed. It has been stripped like onion layers at Burger King.
Catholics said god will give me a second one if I prayed. I needed a dozen at that point. God frowned not knowing I had Brillo Pad scars all across my clitoris and vaginal walls.
Women who love other women were abused.
I love individuals.
I love individuals because I have seen how men move in systems. From five, I have known that the love in my heart cannot belong to man alone. It belongs to the light inside the light in you — I see the light that shines for me. And so, I love individuals.
I love in human. I love that women are beautiful. I love that womyn are beautiful. I love that trans is beautiful. I love that the light inside the light of me can love right.