I am not a feminist,
but when I see conglomerates
of blood in the toilet bowl, I feel my womanly womb
clench her muscles and my authority re-wild,
yet still modesty
and insularity heightens
still embarrassed if a cotton pad falls
out of the bag or if
red blood is caught on the sheets
like I have to be ashamed of soiling something, beside
someone who only exists because
we can bleed as human beings
I remember hiding period pads as a teenager
under the armpit
when I bumped into a boy in a shop
I remember too
my dying granny wearing a pad on her deathbed—
I guess cancer and age makes people incontinent
as we were babies so we become again in our old age
I tell the man that I can’t have sex tonight because
I am bleeding—”you always say that,” he says
Once a month, I say I say it, maybe more
because it’s a brilliant get out clause.
But I’m lying and lied
I haven’t bled in 10 years and when I say it now
to a man,
I say it with pride.
I am Bleeding and every drop of blood means victory,
control, and a letting go.
I am not a feminist but fuck me,
the redness of that red in the blood
I am a painter so maybe I see differently,
but look next time and you’ll see what I mean.
It has got every shade of crimson cream
He tells me “don’t be so feministic, don’t use it on the canvas”
If I do someday, I won’t tell you
it would only enhance the work
and give off that sweet air of woman
that has been soiled for so long
by shame and shambles.