Red pussy as policy,
legislated, inspected, guarded by men
who swear it’s sacred
right up until it belongs to someone else.
A body part turned border,
entry denied,
freedom conditional on approval stamps
and sermons delivered through clenched teeth.
Red pussy as territory,
mapped by lawmakers who’ve never visited,
declared holy by people
who only touch it metaphorically
with laws, penalties, and threats.
Choice reduced to a talking point,
autonomy wrapped in caution tape
and called protection.
Blue asshole as conscience,
tightened with righteousness,
permanently puckered against offense.
Every word filtered,
every joke audited,
every sentence checked
for improper discharge of thought.
Blue asshole as authority,
deciding what’s acceptable to say,
how loudly,
and with what tone.
Progress measured not by freedom
but by how carefully everyone walks
around its sensitivities.
Red pussy screams control is freedom.
Blue asshole insists control is kindness.
Both swear they’re defending the body
while telling everyone else
how to use theirs.
Red pussy fears change
unless it comes with tradition,
bloodlines,
and rules written long before consent
was considered relevant.
Blue asshole fears chaos,
clenching tighter every year,
confusing discomfort with danger
and silence with safety.
One is obsessed with who gets inside.
The other is obsessed with what comes out.
And in between them
stands the rest of us,
actual bodies attached to actual mouths,
wondering how politics became
a full-contact sport played entirely
on other people’s anatomy.
I don’t worship red pussy.
I don’t answer to blue asshole.
I don’t want my body regulated
or my speech sanitized
by people who think power
is best exercised
through someone else’s parts.
Red pussy.
Blue asshole.
Same nervous system.
Same country.
Same desperate need
to mind their own fucking business.
Because freedom isn’t about ownership
or supervision.
It’s about letting bodies be bodies
and mouths say what mouths say
without asking permission
from either end.
—CD
