Period.

My body is alive.

If you pull me close you can hear the

THUMP THUMP THUMP

of blood,

the resonance of my inner voice,

the one telling you

I am living.

My body was a girl.

A girl who looked out her window

and saw a moon pure and white,

like my clean sheets once were.

Told there was a man inside that moon;

so privileged, I thought,

to live upon the sky surrounded by opportunity and space to grow.

Though the man I saw with my girlish gaze one day was gone.

Instead, upon my sheet

was the evidence of my life,

not in my veins

but there, in red,

she, the moon, a woman instead.

I found meaning in her circled stare,

you are whole - she told me.

As she pulled the ebbing and flowing tide

too she pulled between my thighs, a meaning,

an evidence of life, of my, new beginnings and pride.

This period,

mine.

But my body is shame.

If you pull me close you can hear the,

THUMP THUMP THUMP

of anxiety,

the resonance of my inner struggle, the one telling you

I am, my body is - a woman.

A woman who bleeds for 7 days each month,

rich and warm,

like my life once was.

I’m in a cycle.

A cycle made by man for man

who once believed to bleed cooled a woman’s emotional needs,

hysterical natures freed from the shameful opening between our legs,

electricity from the skies yielded by the ache between our thighs,

dogs driven mad by,

women on their periods.

I’m in a cycle.

A cycle made by man for man,

who tell our sisters around the globe

that they can’t take a bath or their crops didn’t grow

all because of a woman’s monthly flow;

that the smell of blood should be hidden away

the pride of a woman now tainted with shame.

I’m in a cycle.

A cycle made by man for man,

who still believe our need for a tampon is a luxury.

that tax should be added for the privilege

of women to have something necessary;

I’m sorry but those pennies that you charge

are just another set of coins filling my jar - of inequality.

I’m in a cycle.

A cycle made by god, or evolution,

who said it should be a woman’s body to hold life,

it was a woman chosen to bear such a precious burden,

it was a woman chosen to endure the pain,

and it was a man - who removed a woman’s right,

to celebrate it.

My body is brave.

If you pull me close you can hear the

THUMP THUMP THUMP

of pain,

the resonance of my aching womb

as it clears out the residue of my past month.

My body is rage.

Rage controlled for the sake of the men

who couldn’t bear the sight of blood in their beds,

but hold proud the blood that symbolises death.

Give medals to the men who drew blood for their country,

and shame to women who drew blood

to make it possible for those men to exist.

To mothers and daughters and sisters and all who menstruate,

whose birthright is to be acknowledged,

as half of the human race.

Because our bodies ARE alive.

If you pull us close you can hear the

THUMP THUMP THUMP

of blood,

the resonance of our inner voice,

the one telling you,

we are, living.