Saturday, April 30, 2005

i want a baby

I want a baby
By Judy munyinyi
Saturday April 30, 2005
East African Standard.

Image Hosted by

There is nothing unusual about a woman wanting a baby. Not even if that woman is 40 because, hey, people do want a baby to ‘retire’ on. But, when it’s Asunta Wagura, who wants a baby, that’s news. Asunta is probably the most famous woman in Kenya living with HIV/Aids.
"I never thought I’d be like this," she starts, almost apologetically. "This year in August, I’ll turn 40 and after having helped and lived for so many people, I now feel I want something for myself. A baby is it.

Thursday, April 28, 2005

Villagers Generate Own Hydro-Electric Power

Villagers Generate Own Hydro-Electric Power

i was very encouraged to read about this initiative where local wananchi are involved in harnessing their own electricity. especially more so, in light of kengen and other government run whathave you's that have amounted to nothing much but white elephants looming precariously on the landscape. talking about dams, development and electricity... i'm rather engaged by the writings of arundhati roy in regards to dams in india and how ' the race for development' supersceeds the needs of the people..

Running Through Kenya

Running Through Kenya

Image Hosted by

"We are not like you people in America," he says. "These people, when they get famous, they stay simple." I think he has a point. When the speeches end, I look over and see Wilson Kipketer, the world-record holder at 800 meters, picking up bottle caps off the ground.

Tuesday, April 26, 2005

Image Hosted by

symphony of the sphinx
nikki giovanni

if it wouldn't be for my mother's moan i might forget about africa a cloud of sound swirling around out in the ocean out in the ocean alone

if it wouldn't be for the way she reaches back to that small spot at the bottom of her spine and massages it with both hands while exclaiming ' whew'
if it wouldn't be for the way she scratches that mosquito bite on her left leg with the heel of her right and catches my hair on a slightly jagged finger nail if it wasn't for the way she eases herself into a hot tub of soapy water smelling all ivory soap-like maybe there would be no reason to look back and remember

when we put grandmother in the ground she was wearing a light bluedress her hands were folding comfortably her face resposed her face reposed. i can't remember her hair i don't know why i can't remember her hair maybe the wind carried it home

if it hadn't been for the soup on the stove it might not have been monday but there was soup and it was monday and grandpapa knew today is wash day and since i was there i, too, washed and rinsed and blued and bleached and starched and carried the wash to the line to give it over to the wind and sun and carried the wash to the line to catch the smell of spice in the air and carried the wash to the line to wave to the clouds swirling about in an ocean of sound from the room where black women hum

those bits of ham or roast or the skin of baked chicken and onions and carrots and cabbage and cloves of garlic and church and club and cabaret and salt and okra to bind the stew

if it wouldn't be for okra maybe africa wouldn't mean the same thing

but saturday, lord saturday mornings, for totally mindless reasons whether grandmother mother aunt sister black women all over pull out clean rags and head for or instruct toward the living room which is never lived in until someone gets married or someone gets dead and why that room needs dusting is beyond me but it is saturday and we are compelled but is american dust

the dust of africa rests in the dressing table where grandmother made up her face before church where mother checked her face before work where i squeezed pimples before school.

how could i forget africa as long as i remember that dusting

i have to remember africa each night as i lay me down to sleep the patchwork quilt my great-grandmother patched one patch two patches three patches more i learned to count by those patches i learned my numbers by those patches the ones that hit and the many thousand gone i learned my patience by those patches that clove to each other to keep me warm

blackberries blueberries koala nuts yams

of course i remember africa just
as africa rememebers

Tuesday, April 19, 2005

a poem about my rights

Image Hosted by

a poem about my rights
june jordan

even today and i need to take a walk
and clear my head about this poem about why i can't go
without changing my clothes my shoes my body posture
my gender identity my age my status as a woman alone in the evening/alone on the streets/alone not being the point/the point being that i can't do what i want to do/with my own body because i am wrong sex the wrong age the wrong skin
and suppose it was not here in the city but down on the beach/or far into the woods and i wanted to go there by myself thinking about God/or thinking about children or thinking about the world/all of it disclosed by the stars
and the silence:
i could not go and i could not think and i could not
stay there alone
as i need to be alone because i can't do what i want to do with my own
body and who in the hell set things up like this
and in France they say if the guy penetrates but does not ejaculate then he did not rape me
and if after stabbing him if after screams if after begging the bastard and if even after smashing
a hammer to his head if even after that if he and his buddies fuck me after that then i consented and there was no rape because you understand finally they fucked me over because i was wrong i was wrong again to to be me being me where i was/wrong to be who i am which is exactly like south africa
penetrating into namibia penetrating into
angola and does that mean i mean how do you
know if pretoria ejaculates what will the evidence look
like the proof of the monster jackboot ejaculation on blackland
and if after namibia and if after angola and if after zimbabwe
and if after all of my kinsmen and women resist even to
self-immolation of the villages and if after that
we lose nevertheless what will the big boys say will claim
my consent:
do you follow me: we are the wrong people of the wrong
skin on the wrong continent and what in the hell is everybody being reasonable about and according to the times this week back in 1966 the c.i.a decided
that they had this problem and the problem was a man
named nkrumah so they killed him and before that there
was patrice lumumba and before that it was my father on the campus of my ivy league school and my father afraid to walk into the cafeteria because he said he was wrong
the wrong age the wrong skin the wrong gender identity and he was paying my tuition and before that
it was my father saying i was wrong
saying that i should have been lighter skinned
and that i should have had straighter hair and that
i should not be be so crazy but instead i should be
one/a boy and before that it was my mother pleading plastic
surgery for my nose and braces for my teeth and telling me to let the books loose
to let them loose in other words
i am familiar with the problems of the c.i.a
and the problems of south africa and the problems
of exxon corporation and the problems of white
america in general and the problems of the teachers
and the preachers and the f.b.i. and the social workers
and my particular mom and dad/i am very familiar with the problems because the problems turn out to be me
i am the history of rape
i am the history of the rejection of who i am
i am the history of the terrorized incarceration of my self
i am the history of battery assault and limitless armies
against whatever i want to do with my mind and my body and my soul and
whether it's about walking out at night
or whether it's about the love i feel or whether it's the sanctity of my vagina
or the sanctity of my leaders or the sanctity of each and every desire that i know from my personal and idiosyncraticand indisputable
single and singular hearti have been raped
cause i have been wrong the wrong sex the wrong
age the wrong skin the wrong nose the wrong hair
the wrong need the wrong dream the wrong geographic
the wrong sartorial i
i have been the meaning of rape
i have been the problem everyone seeks to eliminate by forced
penetration with or without the evidence of slime and/
but let this be unmistakable this poem
is not a conset
i do not conset
to my mother to my father to my teachers to the f.b.i to south africa
to bedford-stuy to park avenue to american airlines to the hardon
idlers on the corners to the sneaky creeps in cars

i am not wrong: wrong is not my name

my name is my own my own my own
and i can't tell you who the hell set things up like this
but i can tell you that from now on my resistance
my simple and daily and nightly self determination
may very well cost you your life

Friday, April 15, 2005

Image Hosted by

no matter how temporal the living situation may be right now, i have come to expect an internal dialogue hinged on the question, ' who wouldn't want a wife?' . in reality, irrespective of the feminist manifestos i have internalized over the last years , this still is a man's world. run with man's rule, entreached in institualialized way that men think.

even with my night shift plus full time school. i still peck & probe whether the apartment is clean. are his clothes ready for work. has he eaten. are you happy, satisfied and content. & when all my questions are answered, i then ask myself, how i'm doing. i'm i happy, satisfied and content.

i've been thinking about the images that i saw in regards to the relationship between lovers. my mother run the house with an iron was always clean. she baked and cooked almost all the meals, she crocheted and made vitambas. she worked full time and at my current age, she had three children.& she still maintained her youthful look. one can say she had help. after all many families employ house helps from time to time. this was the case for many years.yet, just like my mother, i do not have my dinner until he comes home, irrespective of the hour.

& so, all this business of keeping house, really is literally and figuratively. i suppose this is what my mother meant when she said at the end of the day, as a woman, one needs to know herself, intimately and without reserve before she can entertain the charms of a man.

Why I Want a Wife by Judy Syfers (1971)

(Editors Note: This classic piece of feminist humor appeared in the premier issue of Ms. Magazine and was widely circulated in the women's movement.)

I belong to that classification of people known as wives. I am A Wife.

And, not altogether incidentally, I am a mother. Not too long ago a male friend of mine appeared on the scene fresh from a recent divorce. He had one child, who is, of course, with his ex-wife. He is looking for another wife. As I thought about him while I was ironing one evening, it suddenly occurred to me that I too, would like to have a wife. Why do I want a wife?

I would like to go back to school so that I can become economically independent, support myself, and if need be, support those dependent upon me. I want a wife who will work and send me to school. And while I am going to school I want a wife to take care of my children. I want a wife a wife to keep track of the children's doctor and dentist appointments. And to keep track of mine, too. I want a wife to make sure my children eat properly and are kept clean. I want a wife who will wash the children's clothes and keep them mended. I want a wife who is a good nurturing attendant to my children, who arranges for their schooling, makes sure that they have an adequate social life with their peers, takes them to the park, the zoo, etc. I want a wife who takes care of the children when they are sick, a wife who arranges to be around when the children need special care, because, of course, I cannot miss classes at school. My wife must arrange to lose time at work and not lose the job. It may mean a small cut in my wife's income from time to time, but I guess I can tolerate that. Needless to say, my wife will arrange and pay for the care of the children while my wife is working.

I want a wife who will take care of my physical needs. I want a wife who will keep my house clean. A wife who will pick up after my children, a wife who will pick up after me. I want a wife who will keep my clothes clean, ironed, mended, replaced when need be, and who will see to it that my personal things are kept in their proper place so that I can find what I need the minute I need it. I want a wife who cooks the meals, a wife who is a good cook. I want a wife who will plan the menus, do the necessary grocery shopping, prepare the meals,serve them pleasantly, and then do the cleaning up while I do my studying. I want a wife who will care for me when I am sick and sympathize with my pain and loss of time from school. I want a wife to go along when our family takes a vacation so that someone can continue care for me and my when I need a rest and change of scene. I want a wife who will not bother me with rambling complaints about a wife's duties. But I want a wife who will listen to me when I feel the need to explain a rather difficult point I have come across in my course of studies. And I want a wife who will type my papers for me when I have written them.

I want a wife who will take care of the details of my social life. When my wife and I are invited out by my friends, I want a wife who take care of the baby-sitting arrangements. When I meet people at school that I like and want to entertain, I want a wife who will have the house clean, will prepare a special meal, serve it to me and my friends, and not interrupt when I talk about things that interest me and my friends. I want a wife who will have arranged that the children are fed and ready for bed before my guests arrive so that the children do not bother us. I want a wife who takes care of the needs of my quests so that they feel comfortable, who makes sure that they have an ashtray, that they are passed the hors d'oeuvres, that they are offered a second helping of the food, that their wine glasses are replenished when necessary, that their coffee is served to them as they like it. And I want a wife who knows that sometimes I need a night out by myself.

I want a wife who is sensitive to my sexual needs, a wife who makes love passionately and eagerly when I feel like it, a wife who makes sure that I am satisfied. And, of course, I want a wife who will not demand sexual attention when I am not in the mood for it. I want a wife who assumes the complete responsibility for birth control, because I do not want more children. I want a wife who will remain sexually faithful to me so that I do not have to clutter up my intellectual life with jealousies. And I want a wife who understands that my sexual needs may entail more than strict adherence to monogamy. I must, after all, be able to relate to people as fully as possible.

If, by chance, I find another person more suitable as a wife than the wife I already have, I want the liberty to replace my present wife with another one. Naturally, I will expect a fresh, new life; my wife will take the children and be solely responsible for them so that I am left free.

When I am through with school and have a job, I want my wife to quit working and remain at home so that my wife can more fully and completely take care of a wife's duties.

My God, who wouldn't want a wife?

Thursday, April 14, 2005

Image Hosted by

Wounded in the house of a friend
Set No. 1

the unspoken word is born,
i see it our eyes dancing

she hadn't found anything. i had been lipstick. no matches from a well-known bar. no letters. cards. confessing an undying love.nothing tangible for her to hold onto. but i knewshe knew. it had been on her face, in her eyes forthe last nine was the way she looked atme sideways from across the restaurant table as shepicked on her brown rice was the way she paused in profile while inspecting my wolfdreams. itwas the way her mouth took a detour from talk. and then aswe exited the restaurant she said it quite casually:i know there's another woman. you must tell me abouther when we get home.

yeah. there was another woman. in fact there were three florida. california and north carolina.places to replace her cool detachment of these last years. no sex for months. always tired or sick or off to some conference designed to save the world from racism or extinction. if i had to jerked off one more time in bed while lying nextto next to her it woulda dropped off. still i wondered how she knew.

and i dressed right for the smoke
will it wrinkle if i fall?

i had first felt something was wrong at the summer party. his colleague's house. he was so animated. the first flush of his new job i thought. he spoke staccato style. two drinks in each hand. his laughter. wild. hard. contagious as shrines enveloped the room. he was so wired that i thought he was going to explode. i didn't know the people there. they were all lawyers. even the wives were lawyers. glib and self-assured. discussing cases, and collegues. then it happened. a small hesitation on his part. in answer to a question as to how he would be able to get some important document from one place to another, he looked at the host and said: they'll get it to me. don't worry. and the look passing back and forth between the men told of collision and
omission. told dependence on another women for information and confirmation. told of nites i had stretched out next to him and he was soft. too soft for my open legs. and i turned my back to him and the nites multipied out loud. as i drove home from the party i asked him what was wrong? what was bothering him? were we okay? would we make love tonite? would we ever make make love again?did my breath stink? was i too short? too tall? did i talk too much? should i wear lipstick?should i let it grow? what did he want for dinner tomorrow nite? was i driving too fast? too slow? what is wrong man? he said i was always exaggerating. imagining things. always looking for trouble.

do they have children?
one does.

are they married?
one is.

they're like you then.

how old are they?
thirty-two, thirty-three, thirty-four.

what do they do?
an account and two lawywers.

they're like you then.

do they make better love than i do?
i'm not answering that.

where did you meet?
when i travelled on the job.

did you make love in hotels?

did you go out together?

to bars? to movies? restaurants?

did you make love to them all night?

and then got up to do your company work?

and you fall asleep on me right after dinner.
after work. after walking the dog.

did you buy them things?

did you talk on the phone with them ever day?

do you tell them how unhappy you are with me and the children?

do you love them?did you say that you loved them while making love?
i'm not answering that.

can i pull my bones together
while the skeltons come out of my head?

i am preparing for him to come home. i have exercised.soaking in the tub. scrubbed my body. oiled myself down.what a beautiful day it's been. warmer than usual. the cherry blossoms on the drive are blooming prematurely. the hibuscus are giving off a scent around the house. i have gotten drunk off the smell. so delicate. so sweet. so loving. i have been sleeping, no, daydreaming all day. lounging inside my head.i am walking up this hill. the day is green. all green. even the sky. i start to run down the hill and i take wing and begin to fly and the currents turn me outside down and i begin to become young again childlike again ready to participate in all the children's games.

she is fucking my brains out. i am so tired i just want to put my head down at my desk. just for a minute. what is wrong with her?for one whole month she's turning to me every nite. climbing on topof me. put my dick inside her and become beautiful. almost birdlike. she seemed to be flying as she rode me. arms extended. moving fromside to side. but my god. every night. she's fucking my brains out. i can hardly see the morning and i'm beginning to hate the nite.

he's coming up the stairs. i've opened the venetian blinds. i love tosee the trees outlined against the night air. such beauty and space.i have oiled myself down for the night. i have slept during the day. he's coming up the stairs. i have been waiting for him all day. i am singing a song i learned years ago. it is pretty like this nite. like his eyes.

i can hardly keep my eyes open. time to climb out of bed. make the 7.20train. my legs and bones hurt.i'm outta condition. godddamn it. she is turning my way again. she's smiling. goddam it.

what a beautiful morning it is. i've been listening to the birds for the last couple hours. how beautiful they sing. like sacred music. i got up and exercised while he slept. made a cup of green tea. oiled my body down. climbed back into the bed and begin to kiss him all over.

ted. man. i'm so tired i can hardly eat this food. but i'd better eatcuz i'm losing weight. you know what man. i can't even get a hard-on when another bitch comes near me. lool at that one there with rhat see-through skirt on. nothing. my dick is so limp only she can bring it up. and she does. every nite. it aint normal is it for a wife to fuck like she does. is it man? it aint normal. like it aint normal for a woman you've lived with for twenty years to act like this.

she is killing him. he knew it. as he approached their porch he wondered what it would be tonite. the special dinner. the erotic movie. the whirlpool. the warm oil massage until his body awakened in spite of himself. inspite of an 18 -hr day at the office. as he approached the house he hesitated. he had to stay in control tonite. this was getting out of hand.

she was waiting for him. in the bathroom. she'd be waiting for him when he entered the shower. she'd come in to wash his back. damn these big walk-in showers. no privacy. no time to wash yourself and dream. she'd come in with those hands of hers. soaking him. on the nipples. chest. then she'd travel on down to his thing. he sweet peter jesus. so tired. so forlon. and she'd begin to tease him. play with him. suck him until he rose up like some fucking private first class. anxious to do battle. and she'd watch him rise until he become captain sweet peter. and she'd climb on him. close her eyes.

honey. it's too much you know.

all this sex. it's getting so i can't concentrate.

at the office. at lunch. on the train. on planes.
all i want to do is sleep.

you know why. every place i go you're there.
standing there. smiling. waiting. touching.

in bed. i can't turn over and you're there
lips open. smiling. all revved up.
aren't you horny too?

yes. but enough is enough. you're my wife.
it's not normal to fuck as much as you do.

it's not well, nice. to have you talk the way you
talk when we're making love.

can't we go back a little, go back to our normal
life when you just wanted to sleep at nite and make
love every now and then? like me.

what's wrong with you. are you having a nervous
breakdown or something?

if i become the other woman
will i be loved like you loved her?

and he says i don't laugh. all this he says while he's away in california for a week. but i've been laughing all day. all week. all year. i know what to do now. i'll go outside and give it away. since he doesn't really want me. my love. my body. when we make love his lips swell up. his legs and arms hurt. he coughs. drinks water. develops a strain at his butt-hole. yeah. what to do now. go outside and give it away. pussy. for sale. wholesome pussy. right here.
sweet black pussy.hello there mr. mailman. what's your name again?oh yes. harold. can i tell harry? how are you this morning? would you like some cold water it's so hot out there. youwant a doughnut a cookie some cereal some sweet black pussy?oh god. man.don't back away. don't run down the steps. oh my god be fell.the mail is all over the sidewalk. hee hee hee. he's still runningdown the block. mr. federal express man. c'mon over here. let me fed ex you aand anyone else some sweet funky pure smelling black pussy. hee hee hee.

i shall become his collector of small things; become his collector of burps,biceps and smiles; i shall bottle his farts, frowns and creases; i shall gather up his moans, words, outbursts wrap them in blue tissue paper; get to know them; watch them grow in importance; fill them in their place in their scheme of things; i shall collect his scraps of food; ferret them among my taste buds; allow each particle to saunter into my cells; allabroad; calling all food particles; c'mon board this fucking food express;climb into these sockets golden with brine; i need to taste him again.

you can't keep his dick in your purse.

preparation for the trip to dallas. los orleans. baltimore. washington. hartford. brownsville.( orlando. miami. late check liability).that's why you missed me at the airport. hotel. bus stop.train station. restaurant. ( late check in. rush. limitedliability) i'm here at the justice in the eighties conferencewith lawyers and judges and other types advocating abreviatingorchestrating mouthing fucking spilling justice in the bars.corridors. bedrooms.nothing you'd be interested in. ( luggagerecieved damaged.torn. broken. scratched. dented. lost).preparation for the trip to chestnut street.marked street. pinestreet. walnut street. locust street. lombard street. ( earlycheck in. slow and easy liability) that's why you missed me atthe office. at the office. at the office. it is a deposition.i'm deposing an entire office of women and other types needingmy deposing. nothing of interest to you. alot of questions noanswers. long lunches. laughter. penises. flirtings. touches.drinks.cunts and coke. jazz and jacuzzis. ( morning. evening. recievingdamaged. torn. broken. dented. scratched. lost)

i shall become a collector of me
ishallbecomeacollectorof me
i Shall become a collector of me
i shall BECOME a collector of me
i shall Become A COLLECTOR of me

Wednesday, April 13, 2005

Image Hosted by

Two Women
Anais Nin

There were always in me
two women at least
one woman desperate and bewildered
who felt she was drowning
and another who would leap into a scene
as upon a stage, conceal her true emotions
because they were weaknesses, helplessness, despair,
and present to the world only a smile,
an eagerness, curiosity, enthusiasm, interest.

Tuesday, April 12, 2005

Image Hosted by

by Maya Angelou

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies
I'm not cute or built to suit a model's fashion size
But when I start to tell them
They think I'm telling lies.
I say
It's in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips
The stride of my steps
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
Phenomenal woman
That's me.

I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please
And to a man
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees
Then they swarm around me
A hive of honey bees.
I say
It's the fire in my eyes
And the flash of my teeth
The swing of my waist
And the joy in my feet.
I'm a woman
Phenomenal woman
That's me.

Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me
They try so much
But they can't touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them
They say they still can't see.
I say
It's in the arch of my back
The sun of my smile
The ride of my breasts
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman
Phenomenal woman
That's me.

Now you understand
Just why my head's not bowed
I don't shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
I say
It's in the click of my heels
The bend of my hair
The palm of my hand
The need for my care.
'Cause I'm a woman
Phenomenal woman
That's me.

Monday, April 11, 2005

national poetry month

Image Hosted by

i'm a tad late about this. ( 11 days or so). april is national poetry month & in the spirit of consistant postings, i'll include till the end of april, poems from poets that i've loved over the years.


Image Hosted by

Homage to My Hips
by lucile clifton

these hips are big hips
they need space to
move around in.
they don't fit into little
petty places. these hips
are free hips.
they don't like to be held back.
these hips have never been enslaved,
they go where they want to go
they do what they want to do.
these hips are mighty hips.
these hips are magic hips.
i have known them
to put a spell on a man and
spin him like a top!

there is a girl inside.
she is randy as a wolf.
she will not walk away
and leave these bones
to an old woman.

she is a green tree
in a forest of kindling.
she is a green girl
in a used poet.

she has waited
patient as a nun
for the second coming,
when she can break through gray hairs
into blossom

and her lovers will harvest
honey and thyme
and the woods will be wild
with the damn wonder of it.

Thursday, April 07, 2005

whose pussy is it anyway?

Image Hosted by

over the christmas break, my well meaning friend, R saw not only fit that i get a vibrator. ( like one above). the gift also come with several of R's friends showing me how it was down. deep throating, i mean.

this was all very new to me, sharing stuff that until then, i explored in the confines of a relationship without any call coaching or expertise training from outside sources.. the free-ness of sexual banter was refreshing in alot of ways, yet, i was deeply ashamed. of what, i can't quite place a finger to it considering not anyone was in proselyte mode. these men were phenominal. with absolutely no qualm or hesitation, opened my mind to an avenue i had yet to explore. they all took turns in demonstrating how they sucked, what techniques they used & most of all, how much pleasure they felt not only for their partners, but also the joy that comes in sharing.

it was like a passion party a la carte gay themed.

why was the idea of self gratification. self love. self masturbation so terrifying? why was the idea that the only situation, i would be in bliss would have to be in some form another person 'doing’ the penetration?these are questions that were churning through my head since i got the gift. & so, several nights ago, while all was quiet in the front, i went ahead and experienced a consummate orgasm in the hands of a pink neon colored vibrator and two AA batteries.

i felt like celie(color purple) all over again, discovering with glee in her eyes, the labyrinth 'down there'. until this encounter, i've seen toys as a sign of no return. it's like each toy has a sealed self stamped envelope of singleness and abject loneliness.

there is a lot of talk in regards to the sexual objectification of women in music, especially in hip-hop. Which leads me to the question, ‘whose pussy is it anyway?’

inasmuch as i filter what i hear and see, i still realize i harbor a lot of shyt when it comes to my pussy? i'm coming to see, as much as i engage in hetero/homo sexual loving, without the self-loving, its all useless.

i want to take my pussy back. i want to embrace my self in all my rugged terrain & overflowing wetness. i want to see myself and love the rubenesque shape & cellulite thighs. damn! i don't want the girl i will raise, as an aunt, friend, or mother, to think that their pussy, their womanhood isn't beautiful, glorious and precious.

i want to take my pussy back. with all the shame we are made to swallow when it comes to our menses.our goddess given natural cycle, connected to the changing tides of the moon.

i want to take my pussy back. everything i have yet to learn. everything that i know is instinctively good, gorgious and uplifting.mine to fuck or make sweet love to. mine to shy off any wanna be honey suckers, and invite the worshippers to the temple. mine to converse with on my way to work and whisper to when alone in bed. mine to serenade. mine to hold in contemplation. mine to adore.

self love pertains to embracing my pussy.

picture courtesy of here