- society: oh you have your period? well you have two options.
- woman: okay.
- society: you can use sanitary pads, which make you feel like you are wearing a diaper, and have the added fun benefit of being extremely uncomfortable and give you the extreme paranoia that they will not be enough coverage and at any moment with any movement or sudden sneeze you'll bleed over onto your clothes and walk around all day with blood stained trousers while everyone points and laughs at you.
- woman: sounds awful. what's my second option.
- society: a penis shaped wad of cotton that you shove uncomfortably inside yourself and it catches the blood before it leaves your body.
- woman: still seems pretty awful.
- society: wait! it gets better! there's the outside chance that using those will kill you!
- woman: well, are they at least free? like how men can have access to free condoms? i mean, it's not like i'm choosing for this to happen.
- society: HAHAHA! that's funny. no, you have to pay for them. and they're really fucking expensive.
- society: oh, and if you tell anyone that you ARE on your period, your judgement, opinions, and reactions are going to be dismissed as the crazy ramblings of a lunatic.
- woman: i think i'll go with my third option.
- society: what third option?
- woman: i think i'll bleed on everything you love.
My parents always tell me
to never fall in love with someone else
who has baggage.
The problem with that is it disproves this fact:
you have been places and you
are going places, separately from and with me.
I want to lie down in bed with you
and have you lay out all of your suitcases.
I want you to show me the dress you
wore when you were seven and that neighborhood
girl, Sara, kissed you on the nose.
I want you to show me the pair of shoes
you wore when we first met, with your
shoe laces so dirty from walking
around this city and finding pieces
of yourself in the alleyways.
Please lay out that gown you wore
those three days when you were in the hospital
with scars on your skin because
it was easier to hate yourself than to love.
Please let me hold that bracelet
you threw into the Ocean from the first
one that broke your heart and ended up
kissing another girl that same night
and taking her home, fucking her
so hard that the Milky Way wasn’t
a good enough metaphor
to articulate how he felt coming
I will dress you up in my
eighteen year old skin where B.
and I sat instead of danced during
prom, crying over certain things
that we could not keep inside for
much longer. I will let you wear
that sweater I wore the first night
I kissed you underneath a street lamp,
as the snow was falling into the light,
I was falling into you, wholeheartedly.
I will let you wear that shirt you slipped
over your self after that first night we spent
together, in bed, learning how to love someone
properly, in a more physical sense than ever before.
And then I want to pack all of these bags
and stuff them back into our lungs,
so that our histories will always leak out of
our breath. We will not forget
how heavy we felt once and how light we feel now,
in comparison. I want to know your history, simply,
even the darkest corners, so maybe me being there
will make them lighter and make both of us
appreciate the dim light of the Moon
because it was there, even if we did not always
my english is broken.
have to try harder to understand
breaking this language
you so love
is my pleasure.
in your arrogance
you presume that i want your skinny language.
that my mouth is building a room for
in the back of my throat
it is not.