sigh.
so strange to be a woman.

how much of our lives dilate in concentric rings from the dripsplash of lunar blood into clear toilet water, the constant heldbreath of three days late, gritted achepain teeth, strange shame, pure goddammit notnow inconvenience?

and, in that faraway fairytale way, the burgeoning womblife that is washed away each month.

the first panicked lotus moment, afraid that you'll bleed to death there in the public restroom stall.

we are always bleeding, somewhere inside.