without expectations, a silent tenacity

I might have reached a murky ground. 
The compatibility of organs with their manifestations doesn't make sense to me. 
Why are breasts? 
Why are penises? 
Why are vaginas? 
An asshole seems more forgiving because it carries less taboos around its contours, its interiority, and its contractual function. It doesn't pretend to be chaste till dirty. 
Everything else that genital satisfaction envelopes within is lost on me. 
How do breasts enact this belonging, so presumed, so assured, so out? 
How do penises carry such potency that an injury turns them impotent? 
Why are vaginas a drainage, seeping, flowing, moody and yielding? 
I have to admit that I don't believe in a single superstition about their existence. They fabricate bodies into a guarantee. Their presence is affirmative. 
In any reliant perversion, I am not this self-possessed. 
To enact, to form, to refuse invisibility requires an unmitigated competence to keep at it, and some don't enjoy that kind of fanaticism. 
Resilience continues through cracks. It doesn't have a shape.