I grew up hating the word vagina.

The idea of menstruation was repulsive

And I was taught to keep my legs shut

Because my clit was inherently sinful

And the blood was too horrifying to acknowledge.

 

I have been at war with my anatomy

Since the day I was born.

As a child

My legs were constantly bruised,

Already tired of being shoved together,

Even before hearing people

Shamefully whisper the word

Sex.

 

When my breasts began to grow

At first they could not be big enough.

My body was only worth the space

If I matched the flawless ideal.

Then suddenly

My chest was too voluptuos,

A disgusting distraction,

A threat to my safety.

 

As I inched closer to the age of twelve,

I carried a tampon with me everywhere,

Nevermind the fact I had no idea how to use one.

All I knew

Was that I needed to be prepared to hide it.

Unless perfectly prepared for penetration,

My vagina was not allowed to exist.

 

The strangest feeling

Is learning hatred for my own body

While being taught to love its doppelgangers,

No more natural than my own clitoris.

Flower petals

And fruit

Ripe for the taking.

My vagina,

Ripe for the taking,

But banned from discussion.

 

I used tampons incorrectly

For a year.

I had no idea where my clit bloomed

Until half way through high school.

I was only told severe pain was abnormal

Seven years into having my period.

The average age for a female's first orgasm

Is 26 years old.

I am still terrified

Of what it means to be a woman.

 

But this is my anthem.

My anatomical biography.

My dictionary of womyn.

 

One day I will learn

How to take ownership of the ferocity of womanhood.

And when I do,

You will be terrified

Of what it means to be a woman.

 

What did you think would happen

When legs slammed shut

Were unwillingly dragged apart?

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