An upturned cup of blood into the bowl. Bright red or dark. Filtering through water like food coloring, spilling into canvas-worthy shapes. Take a picture? Don’t be silly, that’s obscene. Stare into the bowl to see the Rorschach shift. Flush away. Wash hands and cup. Reinsert. Wash hands. Dry.

. . .

Monthly Bleed as Metaphor for Releasing What No Longer Serves: 
Shed: malice and mistrust / fear of loss, fear of death / resentment / jealousy, envy, insecurity / self-loathing and self-pity / panic about the future / sensitivity to rejection / rage, aggression, agitation / grudges, gripes and griefs / secrets & shame / bad habits / wanting what you cannot have / self-denial / avoidance of responsibilities / selfishness and pride / self-defeat & self-destruction / self-deprecation / indulgence and restriction / false stories that we tell ourselves
Then: Cry if you need to cry, no shame. Scream if you need to scream. Throw punches at the bed. Then here’s what you do next: Forgive yourself. You’re learning and you’re growing.
Release. Release. Release.

. . .

Rivulets running down my thighs. Kaleidoscopic swirls between my feet and trailing down the drain. The blood that’s meant to cradle life, washes off my skin like so much dirt. I catch some in my hands and spread it on my cheeks and arms and chest. What a lovely color. Red like poppies. Red, the hue of life.

. . .

She buckles, her pelvis in knots. A moan escapes her lips despite herself. Not one for self-pity. (The doctors say it’s normal. It’s common to miss work from cramps.) Not pills, not pleasure nor heat packs can dissipate this pain. The word that no doctor voices—the word that would make so much sense: endometriosis. 

. . .

In the theater, a rush of warmth between your thighs. Not arousal from the love scene on the stage. A tablespoon of freshly shed and pooling blood. The play has only just begun. No replacements in your purse. For two more hours: you are a grown woman, in public, sitting in your blood.