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  • Writer's pictureNicole Fang

[prose] Period.

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:

a) constipation;

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…

Jesus Christ.

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.



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