The Universe In My Vulva

I would like to post my latest gynocentric, womyn-friendly poem which I’ve painstakingly written for the local chapter of the Wimyn’s Cliterature Collective. Reading it tomorrow night will require a bit of acting on my part but you know I simply adore performance art which shocks, titillates and surprises!

I call my latest creation: The Universe In My Vulva.

Stop looking at My Vulva, you pervert!
You’re jealous, aren’t you?
Jealous because the Universe is in My Vulva.
It beckons you.
Beckons you, I say!
That’s why you stare.
Your gaze burns a hole right through me.
Maybe I removed my jeans and panties while squatting over a mirror.
But that’s no excuse for not averting your eyes!
I know why you sneak your pathetic peeks.
You know that emptiness dwells within you.
See that empty space where your Vulva isn’t?
That’s where you soul would be.
If you had a Vulva.
Which you do not.
And you cannot hug your Inner Vulva.
That’s why you objectify me.
HEY, you got shit in your ears?
I said stop looking at This Vulva!
THIS ONE! The Vulva I’m pointing to! See it?
Stop looking at it!
What am I? Some kind of easily-pinched Hooters waitress?
Some Vulva that exists for your sick pleasure?
Is that all that I am?
You prick.
You fucking stupid drooling meathead pig.
You just don’t get it.
And you never will.
Maybe I should be grateful that you and the Penisocracy allows me to write at all?
I know that deep down, you FEAR MY VULVA!
You fear the caged energies that live within it.
Got it now, asshole?