“There are twice as many rapists in the USA as single mothers.”
My vagina is a murder scene.

I hear women talk about how lush the petals of their pussy lay, the heart of nectar waiting for the buzz buzz, sap dripping pomegranate cornucopia that lies within crowned jewel of a genital, smoothly. Slipping velvet like the lining of a new couch they see her in layers, shades of violet and rose tissue, decorated, embellished gift, piece.
Well
My vagina is a murder scene, with blood rushing gushing painting walls crazy taking mouthfuls of mystery and deceit and the inner workings of a mad man
Serial killer rampant tire tracks and broken windows
And a few men have even died in there- or so they’ve told me.

My vagina has body bags of broken hearts and white lines carefully tracing each choking moment I thought was what I needed to sustain me- aching yellow tape that cautions don’t go further because it pains me to think of the little shards of glass and bullet hole casings that scrape the edges of my womb
As if preparing the child I will someday bear to come forth to a life perhaps not worth living anymore My vagina acknowledges war
And suffering and the deaths of the innocent and naïve My vagina sees a future invasion in Iran, the country that holds my entire family, which takes a bite in me so hard my every 28 days became every 28 months because enough blood is being shed out there, sees Gaza and Iraq, sees American entitlement and white privilege My vagina saw 9/11 and every tower built by man that crumbled, saw David Opont burned alive for saying no to drugs, everyday children are burned alive for saying no to drugs, a world where my child will be burned alive for saying no, recalls sandy hook and the boston bombing and the Columbia mall shooting, each one caught in the ribbed edges inside of her, she wakes up screaming at night BRING BACK OUR GIRLS, breathing heavy and damp with nightmares of future Trayvon martins renisha mcbrides jordan davis’s and michael brown's churning through her black hole of a mind, my vagina seeps of Elliot Rodger’s supposed mental illness, when she knows male entitlement is not an illness among just a few My vagina blooms bruises purple as Rihanna and as hidden, tastes like Chris Brown being celebrated rather than reprimanded. My vagina sees a President of color, and asks why every minority in this country still feels minor. She knows,
there is no pretending here. There are no cover up rub away mistakes and uncaring of the empty bottles that build us up to break, my vagina don’t ignore the fact that these days its more of a crime to bring life than to take it, more unheard of to be a young pregnant than a youth murderer, more of a mistake to clone yourself in semen and blood and rush out of you someone who either has a 1 in 4 chance of being raped or becoming the one of over 6 million men who commit it- If I see between my thighs downy black hair falling into a pink flushed caramel face, screaming for breath, and arms reaching for a world of nuclear hatred with love diminishing like fossil fuels, my thick legs may act uncontrollable, they may clench the shudder pull that baby inward with no release, because I will not give birth to a child so that they can stand in front of a gun, or what’s more likely, be the one behind it.
And when a crowd gathers around this murder scene, gawking at the bodies burning and charred flesh of promises from our government to keep us safe
And the cold arms that have squeezed past my closed off cavern because we place tighter regulations on female bodies than guns
When they question why I fear what’s inevitable, I will answer,
My vagina will sear itself closed off until the day
That my ability to give birth feels more like the miracle that was intended
Than supplying target practice with more prey.