My Body is Ripe

This is Saturday morning before work. The growing pulse of the sun bleeding out from under the curtains, the curve of my body as I curl deeper into myself and the blankets surrounding me. My hand is curved around my breast, my fingers curled between my legs as I press my face deep into my pillow.
I am ready and waiting and only just beginning to understand the implications of it all.

1

My body does not seem to know if it wants to faint, throw up, or eat more. I’ll settle for the latter as I dig my fingers into the muffin, tearing the soft flesh of baked goods apart in some kind of empty satisfaction, chewing and swallowing with a deliberate purpose. I’ll keep eating until the pain goes away.
I will not talk about the pain, partially because I know I will embellish it. This is nothing until I have drawn the comparison of being hit by a bus, slowly having the insides of my body scrapped out inch by inch with a rusty spoon. Never mind the fact that I have never broken a bone and cannot remember the last time I threw up. Pain has little reference within words. It is in the open space between them, the screech of the brakes on the bus as the driver attempts to swerve at the last second, the bump on the handle of the spoon that digs into my knuckles as I grip it too tightly, in the clumps of blood slowly draining out from my body for the next five days that my discomfort is characterized. I stumble to the bathroom, wanting to curse but not to use the excuse of menstruation to become psycho, digging through the drawers to find the midol or ibeproufen, or anything that I can take in hope of pretending that the drugs will make it better. They generally don’t.
I will keep eating in an effort to staunch the pain with chocolate.

2

You ask me from across the table if I’d like to go home, your brow creased with empathetic concern. I smile weakly, the lights of the restaurant slightly too bright to allow me to conduct my thoughts in a timely manner. I’m fine, I tell you. We’ve already ordered our food and at this point it would be too much on a hassle to leave and have our meal refunded.
I still can’t quite manage to look you in the eyes when we’re alone, I’m still in the habit of observation as I rub my fingers along the edge of my jeans, glance up towards the counter to see if the server is on their way yet. It probably doesn’t help that I am acutely aware of how badly I want to kiss you.
You know nothing of this, not the ache in the pit of my stomach, the stretch of pain along the edge of my thighs as I shiver with the desire to collapse. I will not do so, for this would accentuate my feelings like a weakness, my need for you to touch me. This desire is worse on days like this, as the red of my body spills open, my skin crawling and the gradual relaxation of my muscles while I try to fall back into myself. I am acutely aware that I am empty and cannot hold back my desire for you to fill me. And I know you would not be able to handle the weight of this so I smile, laugh, pop pills in hope they will work or even offer an effect as a placebo.
For I will live through this, long enough to hate myself the next time both of these cycles start themselves over.

3

The blood on my thighs is sticky and matted within the hair between my legs. And every step I make leaves a red trail behind me as I stumble my way across the house to reach the bathroom in the early, early morning. I will have to remember to clean up when I make my way back, find a change of sheets, possibly a towel, anything.
I still watch the blood with fascination each time I remove the cup from my body and slowly pour it down the drain, so red it’s almost black against the white of the sink. For I have done this before, splattered it all across the walls of the shower, traced my name, drawn pictures, stared in contemplation before I licked my fingers clean.
This is mine, my body, my blood, the confusion and delight in the process when I can barely understand the basics of what is happening to me, whether I like it, would I change it, or even stop it if i was offered the chance to. Even though I have read the books my parents gave me, searched the internet in boredom and fear, I still carry an amount of awe each time this happens. For each time I am confronted with the fact that I’m alive, with each beat, pulse and twitch of my body, red blood a swirl down the drain as I wash my hands clean after replacing the cup inside of me.
I am almost sad by the time it is all over.

4

The calendar tells me I should be starting soon. Normally there are no warning signs, no cramps, no aches, nothing but the red dots on last month’s page in the calendar to inform me of the arrival.
This time I am still caught in the need to be fucked, my body opened along an axis in the dark that I do not understand. As if by the feel of some one’s hands along the side of my ribs, his lips against my neck, a bite along the length of my heart and his weight locking me against the bed I could attempt to fill myself with whatever I am missing.
Because the weight of this moment is still heavy, black beneath my covers at night, red along my thighs in the morning, breath heavy each time I fumble between my legs. I am open along a rift I do not understand, caught in cycles as I move in rings around my body. For there is nothing wrong about this, despite what we are told, and in the end I will commit many more sins than this before I die.
So each time the blood comes I stop questioning it all.

Learned to Hate

You’ve learned to hate,

starting with the slow

painful quick growing

of your skin,

stretching a betrayal all across your body,

because you’re no longer a child.

You’ve learned to hate

this cage you’ll never be rid of,

for it’s too big,

too fat, too wide,

not skinny enough to swallow your soul whole

and eat you through from

the inside.

You’ve learned to hate

this blood that’s always flowing

when you least need it,

for in the eyes of anyone else

to you it says you’re dirty,

you’re sinful

now that you’ve split

the essence of life upon the floor

and devoured the fruit of heaven,

because you know

you can never go back.

Red Sunflower Desire

I can remember
the first time I split
this earth open,
locked within the blooming
garden of sunflowers that
formed the upstairs bathroom.
I told you first,
almost begging, asking about
how I should tell our parents.
You dragged me downstairs
and pushed me forward,
spilling forth with the news,
as we all sat there awkwardly,
my small frame I was already beginning
to hate; buried beneath the blue folds
of my bathrobe,
underwear pressing tightly to my skin
as if to brand me
with the red secrets of shame that
I would carry throughout
the years.
I checked off day one immediately,
beginning a regular cycle
of forgetfulness and inconvenience, for
I can no longer count
between the lines in my memories,
a stack of pads sitting
on the polished wood of the
kitchen table as I rush out the door,
breaking apart once more
as my cells and priorities
rearrange themselves again.
I carry no quarters
and spend my days hunting for
toilet paper, stealing pads from under
the sink at other people's houses,
cursing this body
with its ugliness and the blood
it oozes.
Cursing the unjust actions of the
unaware public
as I stand there ready to cry,
staring at the shelves
of a Chinese supermarket, every time subtitled,
debating and counting my money
because I need to have enough
to last me for meal money
till I make it back home.
As I stand there,
yet again no change, no machine either,
only my trusty friend toilet paper,
crinkled and uncooperative,
as it bunches up when I try to go
back to enjoying the movie,
As I lay there,
surrounded in the filth of my own
making, staining my bed,
my safe zone turned into battle grounds
with the blood trailing
down my thighs, out across the sheets
and deep into the mattress.
There's nothing left of that
fateful October day
as all my fears and desires
were confronted by the flowers
blooming across the walls
to match the red blossom
on my panties,
and I know,
this feeling of self-hatred
needs to stop.