There isn’t anything more in this world that I hate, than blood gushing down my thighs in uncontrollable rivulets. The horror of life seeping out of me when I least expect it leaves me cursing the gaping wound I was born with.
What irony, that the very thing imperative to the survival of mankind could very well bleed me dry.
Once a month, I feel an indescribable stab of pain in my abdomen and wonder if I’m about to die from:
b) a ruptured appendix or
c) my uterus self-harming
and though my appendix is still in place, I’m hard pressed to think that the pain from it rupturing, whenever that is, could best the monthly torture I go through without fail.
That is, if it even decides to come, though there’s not much of a difference.
For even when I’m not writhing in pain, I tear my hair out and stress over the occasional postponement of the bloodletting festival. This is bullshit!
I’ve never had sex, so there’s no way I’m pregnant.
Am I the modern day Mother Mary? Am I carrying…
Wait. Okay, nope. Not Mother Mary. It’s here.
And when I’m wearing white too. Fuck.
Now it looks like I’ve got the Japanese flag printed on my backside.
This sucks. There’s fluid everywhere – I’m crying, I’m sweating, I’m bleeding. I’m trying to find a fucking toilet to throw up in.
Leaving the house was a mistake, as it appears to be every single time this happens.
I can’t sit – the marshland in there sticky and wet, releasing an uncomfortable squelch whenever I apply pressure. I can’t stand – my stomach’s cramping, I feel faint and gravity’s only doing its job but the flood of warmth that gushes out whenever I stand is so bloody unnecessary.
I can’t even lie down, the pain in my back a constant reminder of womanhood.
The urge to scream rises like a crescendo, the opened window a very tempting outlet and the dark night calling to me like a siren to a seaman. I contemplate the merits of releasing the pent up anger in such a manner and through the rare appearance of rationality, decide it’s not worth being called a loon for a moment of respite.
I huff like a petulant child and cling onto my pillow, wishing instead that it was the comfort of the weight and warmth of a cat settling onto my tummy.