Vagina: The Myth and the Mirror

His Voice

Oh Vagina, how you have filled my mind and soul with your addicting and enticing role. I, like many before me, have fought to master this perversion of life — Giver of life, and taker of life. The power is immense, and the power is real.

One vagina will not do for most. So some explore, looking for whores. While others rejoice in all its glory, eager to tell their stories.

And so the cycle of sin continues, Until the next flower is gently plucked from the safety of its garden.

Even the horticulturist, with many years of experience, Still feels the need to exert his will upon any bloom He dares to keep still and unaware.

No two are the same. Some are small, some are large — but most remain in charge, Looking to become the next star.

Some have petals and wrinkles too — With many, few, or none to view. But they will spread their morning dew, Permeating the air to attract you.

This aroma can be sweet, sour, or raw — But always devoured, always desired, And its memory can last for hours.

They are takers and makers of life — And if not fulfilled, They will find and trap your soul against your will.

Her Voice

He calls it power, But often forgets I bleed for it — and die for it.

He sees a flower — Something to pluck, taste, and tame. But I am no passive thing rooted in soil or made for his game.

I am the garden, The storm, The season that decides if anything grows at all — Not just some whore he can ignore.

He writes of sin, But never of the cost. Of how our bodies carry the weight of longing and loss. Shame on his desire for power, which can wound as deeply as it connects.

He praises the petals but forgets the thorns — The ache of being wanted only in pieces.

Yes, we are different. We are rivers and caverns, Fire and silence.

But we are not here to be conquered, Devoured, Or compared.

We open when we choose — Not when you arrive.

Our scent is not for your appetite. It is the memory of rain, sweat, labor — The mark of living, and surviving.

We are not the trap, or your despair. We are the garden of life.

And if you lost your soul within us — Perhaps you came without one to begin with.