The thing is that I am late and that lateness is causing havoc in my mind that lateness is causing havoc in my body. You say that you are sorry like you genuinely regret the inconvenience caused But I don’t need your damn apology I need your support I need your presence Your compassion that you once so passionately spoke about.
While you run around carefree plan your exciting life ahead My life’s been paused feeling stupid embarrassed guilty helpless facing the consequences of those fleeting moments of passion that we shared together.
But now it’s just me who stands nervously inside the court Awaiting moral, ethical, cultural, social, political, judicial judgement Too scared to say a word even to the people who love me the most Too paranoid to think straight Too emotional to process That the verdict is already out That I am plain outright stupid to be a woman and probably soon-to-be a ‘killer’ desperately trying to save her own life.
Unless, of course I get those damn periods which I generally hate but now that I am late I’d love it to meet me greet me with its glorious bloody presence even though I don’t particularly enjoy the cramps and the mood swings it brings I look forward to embracing it all awaiting my uterus to make that final call to shed itself and relieve me from my misery.
I tell myself that I will get through this somehow whatever it may come to but why why is it that the responsibility to bitterly atone is solely on me and me alone? men will be men and meanwhile I? I am a criminal. Nothing less but probably everything more.
The bloodstain on my bed-sheet— Let me conceal it with the pillow or the blanket or my bag or anything before it catches your attention, before you look at it and look away in an unintentional acknowledgement OR in your rare stupidity or blissful ignorance or surreal broad-mindedness ask me about it. I don’t want to but I am going to lie and tell you that maybe I slapped an obese mosquito in sleep or maybe I spilled over paint or tea or something. Why am I lying though? Is it so hard to admit that this could be something those absorbents failed to absorb? Is it so hard to accept the curse (or one of the curses) of womanhood? But isn’t it what I am supposed to carry around with pride? How come it has succumbed to being one shameful act on which I don’t even have any conscious control? Forget about tampons or pads, why is this issue something that you can’t absorb? Forget about you, why is it something I can’t absorb in my head? Why can’t I accept that it indeed is okay and has always been. That it is okay if I step into the temple. That it is okay that I take leave over menstrual cramps. That it is okay to be how we are. That it is okay to talk about it and it is okay if I refuse to hide the fact that I might be menstruating.
The bloodstain on my bed-sheet— It takes an interesting shape if lately, you have spotted me smiling too much on my own and if you have snapped me out of my daydreams quite frequently. It doesn’t require you to be a rocket scientist to deduce what might be going on here. So maybe you can infer that I might have had an interesting night recently. The blood stain on my bed-sheet; a gentle reminder of how my hymen broke, how I lost my purity, how I broke the unsaid rules. Or maybe it can also remind you of the fact that how a woman’s vagina is not simply a socket to plug into. Maybe it can remind you of her reluctance or her pain. But of course, you are not supposed to mind or even pay attention to my disrespectful and shameless language here. And if possible, I request you to please overrule my objection as many times as you wish.
The bloodstain on my bed-sheet— A very simple tool for the comfortable passage for your judgement. A silently unnecessary reason for my panic. I must give this cloth for laundry or else I will be sentenced to lifetime embarrassment. I am still serving for the time when I miscalculated the onset of my periods, when I was told through actions and suppressed words the state of my destroyed uterine wall and how the evidence of destruction laid projected on my white skirt. How disgusting is this blood that is meant to harbor a life! How disgusting is this blood that is meant to guard my health! How disgusting is this blood that gives me capability to bear a child! How disgusting and impure is this blood indeed! The bloodstain on my bed-sheet; let’s cover it up immediately before anyone sees.