Crimson Rebel

There is no shame in how I bleed 

between my legs - black, thick, 

red, and clotting. It's just anatomy. 

This flow is a collision of powers, both primal 

and mystical. Is neither blessing nor curse 

but rather the poem of how my body controls

the moon and tide.

My uterus sheds itself every month.

Is both a purge and a punch in the gut.

I have touched this offering felt it slide slippery 

between my fingers pool and clump; 

smelled its tang penny ting as I soak and wring out 

clothes sure to stain.

It has shown me how /to let things go, 

to regenerate 

after being torn apart – 

to become new 

and to hold on to something. 

I have learned life is a cycle 

of periods, both calm and fierce 

with steady pushing of the body onward

of belonging and not.

That rinsing is a ritual of self-care, 

and cold water is refreshing.

This rag has taught me to rely on a sisterhood 

of deep friendships. 

United – we always bleed together. 

And there is a message in this.

The surge of this crimson river within us

does not wait to pour out.

It is a revolt, a siren

showing up in places unannounced.

This bloody mess misbehaves, is not unsanitary 

gets all over - does not hide. 

It Is mighty and is the roar between our thighs. 

Let us be wild, spill over onto sheets, 

run rampant, scatter our insecurities and cramp 

those who try to take away

what is rightfully ours. Pour out into the streets

and bleed, bleed, bleed on everything like Eve’s rebellion.