deep crimson permeates on the fine linen
splatter and taint blossom like twisted petal
writhing, a sharp ache that strikes like a thump of heart
as a tide rises in a rage of shifting body
ever expanding, in a narrow frame that restricts and restricts
this is a wake of thick red
this is a dawn of a new stage,
barely rehearsed
as girlhood expires and womanhood begins, an exhausting cycle of nature
abruptly, unannounced, without a word of warning,
leaving you in the drifting field of red-blood spreading
growing old feels like a spin of a rushing wheel with no end in sight
and your clumsy finger is about to slip from fragile control.
you would wash clean the rush of blood from your awkward body
believing it to be violence. believing it to be intimate.
a tug of war inside your flesh with nothing but you in the line
as you try to draw something besides the blood running out from your body
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