Dear Pussy,

Does it bother you that I sometimes call you a cock?

Do you feel misgendered??

Or do you feel seen as the penetrating power you can sometimes be??

Dear Pussy,

Is the reason why you are so wet all the time because you’re crying?

I imagine it must be so lonely.

If my heart feels lonely,  you must feel it too, right?

I wish I could find someone worthy of us, my Power, I truly do.

Dear Pussy,

I wonder, what other words do you like to be called?

Because there are many.

Cunt? Clit Keeper? Vulva?

Clam? Beaver? Oyster?

Fish? Cream Catcher? Yoni?

Vajayjay? Labia Lined Love Tunnel? Snatch?

Coochie? ‘Down There’? Private Parts? 

Sideways Smile Down the Long Mile? Nacho-Taco?

I don’t like any of those words for you,  but I also don’t hate them.

Dear Pussy,

I wish I could kiss you without using my fingers

Or someone else’s lips as an intermediary.

I bet that I could kiss you just right.

No awkward fumbling timid touches,

Or greedy gobbling in a way that feels chaotic and detached. 

Like people who have tried before.

Dear Pussy,

I bet you’d like the way I’d suck the slick from every part of your slit.

Slowly, reverently,  savoringly. 

Like a silent psalm to a storm,

Leaving me dripping and smelling pretty as petrichor. 

Dear Pussy, I want to worship you

But I confess even I have distance when approaching you,

Mostly because I feel like embracing

The completeness of you would make me mean,

Adversarial, bitchy, commanding, assertive but always

Confused to be aggressive, 

Too direct and nowhere near as mild

And sweet as my everyday smile.

Dear Pussy,

So beautiful and fierce, 

My hidden power,

I know how angry you feel,

My beautiful pussy.

That constant crying,

And never-ending patience,

Will one day stop.

And then what happens?

Do you become just another hole?

No better than a common asshole?

Dear Pussy,

Sometimes I wish you were bigger,

But not enough to surgically carve you into a phallus.

On some level, it must mean,

I want you,

That I accept you as you are,

Right?

Maybe it's some kind of jealous possession. 

Because, deep down,

I don’t want anyone

Putting themselves inside you,

But me.

Is that so wrong?

I know it can hurt,

But I am used to the feeling of your blood,

Other people only think they know. 

And blindly invade, arrogantly drunk

On their ignorance,

And end up being clumsily unsatisfying,

Too weak to weather the storm of us

That they leave at the first sign of

Darkening skies and heavy wind.

No,

Dear Pussy,  You are Mine.  

And Mine alone.

No matter who I let visit our hallowed halls.  

You 

Are 

Mine.

As much as I am yours.

And I love every fold of you…

The thick mound of you,

The swallowing suck of you,

Around my fingers.

Dear Pussy, 

I love your scent most of all.  

The savory sharp wholesome spice of you. 

Like a home-cooked meal

All my feelings just simmer and marinate in that slit, 

Deep inside

Dripping that self-serving syrupy slurp, 

Begging to be sipped

Warm, and salty-sweet like ocean water 

Stirred up-river as the salmon swim into it, 

Urgent, needy and aching. 

Eggy, potent fertility brewing in the dark.

Dear Pussy, 

I adore your darkness.  

Those things you need me to feed you,  

To think about when I touch you.  

Oh, my beloved, powerful pussy, 

You are so fucking dark, 

And I fucking love that you want me 

To remember the blood and the clench. 

You want a stalking seduction 

As fingers cum hither and hips rock, 

Slowly squeezing out the sex from you,  

Just coaxing it out with slaps, 

Scrapes, scratches, and sadistically soft whispers, 

That only you and I hear, 

Things that you need to hear 

And only in the way that I can say it. 

Dear Pussy,  

You vibrant, violent thing,  

You hold tides and storms of pleasure, 

Quietly waiting for someone 

To offer us a ring but no one ever does. 

And even if someone does one day, 

They wouldn’t know how to surf your swells 

And survive the splash of you, 

The way I do. 

So I grope your depths and frolic with

Your folds and that is why it is for you, 

And you alone, that I sing. 

I sing my Power’s voice like 

A beansidhe siren heralding the little deaths 

Held in and built up, 

A full cellar of vintage stores of pure praise, 

Tickled out like practiced piano symphonies on concert day. 

And I gotta say, boy, can I play...