I’m not a feminist, but I feel my womanly womb clench her muscles and my authority re-wild when I see conglomerates of blood in the toilet bowl, but modesty and insularity heightens still embarrassed if a cotton pad falls out of the bag or if red blood is caught on the sheets, as if I have to be ashamed of soiling something, beside someone who only exists because we can bleed as human beings.
I recall tucking period pads under my armpit as a teenager when I ran into a boy in a store, and I remember my dying grandmother wearing a pad on her deathbed— I believe disease and age made us incontinent as newborns, so we become incontinent again.
“You always say that,” he replies when I tell him I can’t have sex tonight because I’m bleeding.
I repeat it once a month, maybe more, since it’s a great get-out clause.
But I’m lying, lying, lying that I haven’t bled in ten years, and I say it proudly today to a guy.
I’m bleeding, and each drop of blood represents success, womanhood, control, and a release.
I’m not a feminist, yet the colour of the red in the blood fascinates me.
Maybe since I’m a painter, I see things differently, but take a look the next time and you’ll see what I mean.
It has every crimson cream shade imaginable.
“Don’t be so feministic, don’t use it on the painting,” he says.
If I do it eventually, I won’t tell you since it would just improve the job and give off that delicious air of womanhood that has been tainted by shame and disarray for so long.
Next blog will be out soon.Desai Thoughts MEdia.
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