Octavia St. Laurent

I want you down on your knees
Where servants and dogs belong
Licking at my toes
HUNGRY for a taste of my sweat and grime
Any proof of my earthy heritage
And otherworldly existence
I want you suckling at my tits
And polishing the dark brown of my areolas
My pleasure should be your first concern
Wiping up the wetness from my legs
And caressing the inside of my vulva
i want you ripping at my skin
with your teeth and nails
Shredding me apart
And piecing me back together
With nothing but the faint memory of my being
And a lingering taste for my pussy 
You can call me out my name
Then recognize who I am
And worship me
Wrap your hands around my throat
Until my heart is palpitating in your palm
And the key to its chambers is misshapen and unusable
Learn how my cervix is shaped
And then leave it to me

You can do whatever you like with me

Except disrespect me.

The pussy Poem

Today I took a hand mirror and stood naked in my bedroom
I decided I would pick my pussy apart and find the self respect the worth and the value
Hidden beneath between and betwixt the pink flesh
I took that hand mirror and placed it between my legs
Stuck my fingers between the two fatter lips and felt round.
I touched my clit and wondered why men have such a hard time finding it, then separated the inner vulva—the smaller lining of lips.
Maybe beneath them would be the highly requested list of all the men I’ve ever fucked scrawled on old legal pad paper in sloppy black ink
Drenched in my own cum, sweat, and discharge
I looked and I looked.
Searched and felt and roamed the insides of my pussy
I took it apart, laid the insides atop my bed and stared at them.
Written somewhere on the skin had to be all the rules
All the standards
And of course, the sheet of paper signing my reproductive rights over
To a bunch of old white men who only see pussy in mirrored reflections

(incomplete)