Muses on Menstruation

muses on menstruation

It’s creeping up on me, my don’t give a flip time. Starring me and my period- tah-dah!

Bound together with secure fitting, sticky backed wings, we truly don’t give a flying one. My period is MY time.

My moments of meditation amongst my menses are immensely gratifying. I revel in bleeding. I lie around, floating in the knowledge that I am all-powerful; a mermaid of me, I glide through watery fantasies, casting my net of tampon strings. My mind thinks back to ex-fucks and I masturbate furiously, uncaring and disregardful of my pale aqua sheets. My vagina does not give a fickle little frig what anyone thinks of her.

Consuming a kilo of carbs is nothing to me. It is not a monthly “curse” I have, it is a spell of empowerment. A magical mystery that is part protein, mixed with vodka slushes and a mountain of mashed potato: a truckload of chips can’t weigh down my mind. I conquer food because my curvy beautiful body does not give a fat fuck.

A slattern, I steal sleep. Take to my bed for a full day armed with a plate overflowing with cheese and a Brontë. Sweating and bleeding in my ancient but perfect rose-strewn dressing gown, I delve into a bygone era and do not have a fancy care in the world. I am adored by Heathcliffe, ravished on the moors, I am Cathy, let me in at your window. My hand may slice at glass but I don’t give an ethereal, ghostly thought to it…. Blood? Pah!

Eventually, I dress. A random, oddly assorted selection of items. I carve up clothes with abandon, ripping sleeves from tops and roughly stabbing feathers, sequins and old mismatched earrings through net to create a top. My “I couldn’t give a fashion fuck” look. Pulling on biker boots and hitching up inappropriate shorts, I don’t care that I am wearing a tail-like string from my gusset. Not in the slightest bit worried, I leap into the darkness of night and haunt clubs and bars. Last seen frequenting the cage in a gay bar, my monthly manic woman is marauding and dancing through the midnight hours.

muses on menstruation

Then suddenly, it stops. It’s over. I’m me again, back to my boring three-weekly sanitised role. The sensible one who irons and sweeps, proclaims “must pay my rent”, “eat my vegetables”, and “no drinking ‘til Friday”, grandly hiding my demonic deviances away, until next month….

Featured artwork: The Crimson Thief

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