I can remember
the first time I split
this earth open,
locked within the blooming
garden of sunflowers that
formed the upstairs bathroom.
I told you first
almost begging, asking about
how I should tell our parents.
You dragged me downstairs
and pushed me forward
spilling forth with the news
as we all sat there awkwardly,
my small frame I was already beginning
to hate
buried beneath the blue folds
of my bathrobe,
underwear pressing tightly to my skin
as if to brand me
with red secrets of shame that
I would carry through out
the years.
I checked off day one immediately
beginning a regular cycle
of forgetfulness and inconvenience for
I can no longer count
between the lines in my memories,
a stack of pads sitting
on the polished wood of our
kitchen table as I rush out the door
breaking apart once more
as my cells and priorities
rearrange themselves again.
I carry no quarters
and spend my days hunting for
toilet paper, stealing from under
the sink at other people’s houses,
cursing this body
with its ugliness and the blood
it oozes.
Cursing the unjust actions of the
unaware public
as I stand there almost crying
staring at the shelves in a
Chinese supermarket, every sign subtitled
debating and counting my money
because I need to have enough
to make it back home.
As I stand there
yet again no change, no machine either
only my trusty friend, toilet paper,
crinkled and uncooperative
that bunches up when I try to go
back to enjoying the movie.
As I lie there
surrounded in the filth of my own
making, staining my bed
my safe zone turned into battle grounds
with the blood trailing
down my thighs
out across the sheets
and deep into the mattress.
There’s nothing left of that
fateful October day
as all my fears and desires
were confronted by the flowers
blooming across the walls
to match the red blossom
on my panties
and I know
this feeling of self-hatred
needs to stop.
