Bleed

Red. Dark. A drop, a spot. Two spots. Does it scare you? Do you run?
Flowing, pumping. Through your veins, under your skin. Under mine, when /I/ run.
Falling, dripping. Staining flesh. My thighs are its valley, blood the river.

Tell me, why do you run? Are you scared? Scared of its mystery, of the colour. The colour of the sweetest rose that you plucked for your girlfriend yesterday.

Your girlfriend… do you love? Nay, do you touch? Do you smile, do you listen, do you undermine? Undermine opinions, that is, or desires. And what of when she bleeds?

Tell me, do you not bleed? Bleed Blue, you say. Bleed from a cut, too. But involve the lips, and not the ones that kiss… why do you not then touch, or trust, or hear, nor listen?

Listen. A Yes is a Yes, a No is a No. I bleed, it hurts. I speak, it doesn’t. Nor does it to heed. You argue, we talk, we discuss, we love. Business as usual. The blood? Fade to background, cue music.

No anger, no madness, no genocide (pray choose better labels). Are you still scared? Of what? A drop, a spot? Or of my mind… The mind that thinks, that questions; the mind that is your equal?

No, it is not my time of the month, nor is it hers. When it is, you’ll know.
The sheets will stain red.

*

[Borne of my brush with many recent comments on various articles with men telling many a female poster to stop PMSing, or the like]

Article by Avanika