I am not a feminist,

but when I see conglomerates

of blood in the toilet bowl, I feel my womanly womb

clench her muscles and my authority re-wild,

yet still modesty

and insularity heightens

still embarrassed if a cotton pad falls

out of the bag or if

red blood is caught on the sheets

like I have to be ashamed of soiling something, beside

someone who only exists because

we can bleed as human beings

I remember hiding period pads as a teenager

under the armpit

when I bumped into a boy in a shop

I remember too

my dying granny wearing a pad on her deathbed—

I guess cancer and age makes people incontinent

as we were babies so we become again in our old age

I tell the man that I can’t have sex tonight because

I am bleeding—”you always say that,” he says

Once a month, I say I say it, maybe more

because it’s a brilliant get out clause.

But I’m lying and lied

and lie

I haven’t bled in 10 years and when I say it now

to a man,

I say it with pride.

I am Bleeding and every drop of blood means victory,


control, and a letting go.

I am not a feminist but fuck me,

the redness of that red in the blood

is fascinating.

I am a painter so maybe I see differently,

but look next time and you’ll see what I mean.

It has got every shade of crimson cream

He tells me “don’t be so feministic, don’t use it on the canvas”

If I do someday, I won’t tell you

it would only enhance the work

and give off that sweet air of woman

that has been soiled for so long

by shame and shambles.

wondering wandering artist with a mind floating in a sea of creativity

Keep up with Ciara on Instagram and