i must be showing, they must be smelling me
the blood that rushes from the keeper of my ovaries
i must be disgusting, they must be repulsed by me
the odor carries over in my legs and what sits between

i must be leaking, they must see mahogany
the river from beneath me, cuts with crimson through misogyny
i must be odorous, they must taste the cherries
when a body’s this porous, it’s threatening, it’s scary

i must be a siren, they sound the alarms
every place i arrive, the men they lock and load arms
i must be a target, a period they can aim towards
a bull’s eye of garnet to infuriate the main guards

i am my vagina, i carry and i give life
every month, at least, i kill in battles you could never fight
see, the best warriors shed just as much blood as they take
‘cause the fear of death is nothing when you’re this acquainted with pain

without my vagina, there could be no castle
you could have no dynasty or walls to overshadow
and a fear of the fearless is a power you can’t create
so you can build your empires, but their foundation is my cave

i digress…

although, it is a necessary digression
a necessary digression to lean into the complexities of intersectional oppression
where the facets of our identities clash in power and suppression
where socio-culturally, we’re forced to grapple with contradiction

i am here to build pyramids, not to build hierarchies of struggle
as a brown and queer womxn, i must be accounted for and be responsible
but to be summoned by a man who sees my color and not my pussy
unproductive—pun intended—is your penis not accountable to me?

i digress…

although, it is a necessary digression
a necessary digression to glean from the tragedies of the marginalized in competition
the true victor is neither army, but the devil that siphons my blood
that rapes me daily, that robs your seeds, that made strange fruit from your ancestor’s guts

we do not know each other’s pain, the blood we shed has particularity
your scarlet no deeper than my stain, our shedding is our familiarity

i will not cut you to compete with your red while the devil drinks our wine
my vagina and your color are different grapes of tangled vines

but back to my vagina, this vessel with fangs as soft as feathers
is not as open as my heart, so you must ask before you enter

your entrance by force whether by lust, touch, or words
are somatic assaults on the parts that render me "her"

to live in this body is to be in constant warfare
to love in this body is to be subject to silent terrorism

only a body that fights to live will die for a cause beyond its own
only a body that bleeds as it draws can die and come alive on its own. 

when i was five years old, i didn’t use my voice.

when i was five years old, i figured silence was my choice.

from birth to five years old, my only language was my people’s.

from birth to five years old, i saw the world through foreign pupils.

i learned to tie my shoes the same year that i learned shame.

i learned to illustrate the same year that i learned blame.

mama taught me how to count, but she pronounced a dozen “chwelve.”

when the school bells rung, i heard alarms that warned me not to be myself.

at five years old, i never spoke when i stepped outside of my house.

at five years old, i held my tongue to keep my accent from making sound.

in preschool, it was clear that my pronunciation of english was broken.

every morning, mama would wake me and i would cry i wasn’t going.

at eight years old, i learned that being good enough means being white.

at eight years old, i erased my native tongue and kept “hello”, “thank you”, “goodbye.”

in between where i was born and where i’m from, i became a token of my colonizer.

and as i grew into adulthood i was made into a fetish, exotic fruit of the womanizer.

from “cross your legs” to “smile more”, my voice was taken from my chords.

from “go back home” to “sweep the floor”, my voice was theirs when i was born.

to be queer, womxn, and immigrant is to be

hushed

hidden

crushed

ridden

trained

summoned

blamed

hunted

in my fights against fists, i learned the strength of my hands.

in my fight against omission, i learned the strength of my stand.

my existence is resistance, every day i fight wars.

my insistence till they listen is a crusade for my own voice.

i’m not afraid to be queer, to be womxn, or immigrant.

i’m not afraid to be loud, to be seen, or insubordinate.

when i talk, it’s with intention to unfurl the ropes that keep my freedom

and i walk with my convictions so the world still hears me when i’m not speaking

with my body, i struggle, i push, build, and rise.

against the silence and the violence

against omission and permission

i lend my voice for revolution and our generation’s fire.