the mouldy rags of poverty

each month blood falls mercilessly from her body, an uncompromising crimson mess of disappointment being expelled with each moon cycle,

rags are sacrificed from the few clothes she has left, clothes already ingrained with mould from this deathly and humid atmosphere,

mould she breathes into her lungs, her body

mould which decays and rots her from the inside out

parasitically devouring all that is precious,

and soft,

and pure,

within.

those rags interrupt the flow of bloody mucus from cascading down her porcelain thighs,

from discolouring everything she makes contact with, from exposing the turmoil within, outwith

they could be washed and reused, only they cannot dry without sun,

and there is no privacy for her or her bloody rags to hang on lines,

and so they are burned in the fire to keep shame from her mind,

the currency she receives is exchanged for the fruits of God’s earth, intended as her gift to humankind, but sold by demon men of a capitalist mind,

leaving woman in a bloody poverty of only her kind