I Bleed

Don’t you see how I could, if I choose to, put an end to this bloodshed that repeats itself month on month and lasts for three, five, seven sometimes even nine days?

But I don’t, out of sheer respect for the laws of nature and my choice to endure what ought to be… I Bleed

Don’t you see, despite the scars, the blood, the rashes that gnaw at my tenders and the horrible pain that devours my gut, I smile and do what has to be done… I Bleed

You see, you nod, you feign empathy but continue to dare call me impure and troll my menses, force me to refer to them subtly as days, the curse, monthlies, being on the rag, time, flowers, visitors, monkey’s mouth leaks, chums? Moontime, crimson tide, aunt flow, shark week, lady business, red wedding, riding the cotton pony… Oh endless names, what cacophony!

I Bleed…

Don’t you see? These periods if anything are commas, they pause to continue in their reverie unmindful of what I’m made to forgo in the name of purity, adding heaps of thoughtless lip service to an eco-insensitive soak pad industry

I bleed…

Don’t you see, it is only because I bleed that life runs in the veins of your teeming lands, don’t you see it is this crimson, brown, red, maroon, pale pink, mauve madness that is the very premise of your blue-blooded moral stand?

I bleed…

Don’t you see it is these whimsical, erratic, multi-hued smears that ensure life’s potency? Don’t you see, that it is this very undesirable discard of my womb that gives meaning to desire and ecstasy?

Don’t you see, that unless I bleed there’s no life, no heritage, no continuity…
Don’t you see that what you call impure is in fact what validates your sanctum’s sanctity…

I bleed, I bleed, I bleed, and only until I do, YOU will be

Picture by Erol Ahmed (Unplash)

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