Refraction Point

In a dream,

I sit naked in front of a mirror,

my vulva made of pink glitter.

It shifts in vibrant blush tones where the blood rushes

like a sigh under the surface.

When I touch myself, everything parts

to reveal a kaleidoscope of rich reds inside,

light glinting off of carnelian,

sun-soaked

touch-warmed.

In reality,

I sit on the ledge of a bathtub

fumbling through the blood of another period,

red between my legs

red dripping off my fingers

bright pink menstrual cup clenched in one hand

and not fitting inside

no matter how many goddamn times I try.

I’m not a girl but I’m not

not one either, this body won’t let me

forget.

My vulva isn’t a bejeweled cavern

but a blood-stained tunnel

leading to a pit where the word

gender sits.

Can I leap in without being swallowed

by the metaphors for what my body should be?

Treasure sparkle petal pink blush flush.

Even better,

can I meet in the middle,

equal parts geranium flower and split lip?

I want to say girl

and be the only one who knows what it means.