Alright, so I wrote this poem a while back. The cast of the Vagina Monologues did a photo shoot in March, and my friend asked me about my photo. I told him that we had to dress like our Vagina Warrior. He asked what that meant, and I honestly had no response for him. So, as I am wont to do, I sat down with some Sara Bareilles and wrote out exactly who my Vagina Warrior is, and how I allow her to participate in this absurd life that I call my own. I have a recording of me performing it, but my delivery could use a little work. Perhaps, I will work on that.
Anyway, I hope that you enjoy it.
sea glass
My vagina warrior lived inside of me
pressed down and sodden
like the dregs of yesterday’s coffee grounds.
On a ship in a glass bottle,
I admired her—
A piece of decoration.
The beliefs of not good
enough
and
not beautiful
enough
chain her to the mast,
splayed her, restrained her
in a way that rendered her
helpless
defenseless and
naked
to the onslaught of
wave after wave of perfection—
perception.
She will never be
tall.
She will never be
thin.
She will never be
beautiful.
My vagina warrior fought these
shackles.
She rallied the
force of her arms,
the
power of her legs
and the cuffs opened
not with a
Click,
but with the
Unadulterated
Wild
sound of the oppressed.
Enough
The sonic sound shattered the glass.
She refused my
submissions
my
control
my
standards.
She defied definition.
She created discomfort
to make me feel.
something anything
She turned to me,
not with rage
but with
pity--
because I’d kowtowed to
rules and opinions and
external pressures
changed my self to fit into
society’s
glass bottle—broken
though it may be—
with its missing pieces
and jagged edges
meant to cut me
and keep me from feeling
whole.
Its shards scattered among the
rubble.
There is no way to glue it back together—
whole
My vagina warrior stepped inside of
me,
kissed my edges smooth,
and together we became
sea glass,
living wholly and beautifully as
