and the answer is to make art that tells them to fuck right off.
The surgeons left me with a patchwork cunt
stitch-marks and scars, and smooth skin flayed from thigh.
I bled. I oozed. With speculums, I’d try
to burn new keloids off. I’d grope and hunt
for small hard bits I’d missed. That now are smooth.
Things levelled out. You’d never know the sore
torn places that were there. For an old whore
it’s sweet and neat and innocent as truth.
I paid in blood and pus. Here’s what I got.
Not some mere hole, but tenderness. A maze
of flesh love’s fingers have explored for days
and found its spring, gushing and furnace hot.
I dared not hope. Yet my reward was this –
to hang in ecstasy on sweet girl kiss.