is pain, all the objections
we’ve made towards
our past lovers,
blown into, peeling off
and dying away,
is blood, of our mothers
and daughters
given up for life, thousands
of times we lie
and say we’re fine,
womanhood is this
cursed lunar cycle,
the cold yin of my body is
only comforted
with a warm sock
stuffed with rice
microwaved as many times
as this day has come,
womanhood is eleven years old
hiding in the corner
it would just stop,
womanhood is curling up
on the square
moonlight at midnight
on the carpet, soaking in
the luminescence of our
sister, her coming
and going spells
bringing me closer each day
to that phase, again.


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