Dissociating
The next time I menstruate, I foresee I will sob. I foresee myself inserting a menstrual cup, collecting all that hasn't, in months, fallen, disproving the tablespoon theory. I'll hold the cup in my hand, stare at the blood, counting the number of clots formed over seven hours. I will sit on my bathroom floor, hold the smell of metal in my mouth. I'll text you, tell you it finally happened, that I finally bled again for the first time in seven months. I'll say the metformin must be working. You'll tell me to message my doctor, ask about upping the dose. I’ll write it down in my notes app as I ask about how your day went. We'll eventually get distracted over random bullshit about my PhD or how our relationship is shattering into pieces [edit/note: it shattered]. After an hour, I'll say "I love you" before I hang up the phone. The phone, now resting on my laundry basket, lights up with a text I can see in my periphery, but my attention is again on the cup. The next few blinks will become blurry, then blinding. The sobs will erupt once more, knowing that this could be the last time for a while I need to pull up a YouTube video and relearn how to push this cup between my lips. But I am going to hope and pray that in 28 days or even within 40, if lucky, I'll find my underwear fucked up and covered in blood that I'll have to rinse off and a new pad to wear. Over the sound of the tap water running, I stare at the dissolving blood and begin to pray that one day, I won't have to remember the feeling of missing the fervency that came with menstruation. The tap shuts off and I unwrap the pad from its plastic covering. As my underwear travels up my legs, I am already in mourning.
"You have always represented ten daughters to me"
-a quote from my mother that I know means well but I think is partly the reason I’m passively suicidal
The lightening broke the sky into three, then ten and then one once more; the density of light that scattered across the sky collapsed back into itself. I think God called them back home, though only for a second before they are sent out to light the world beneath again. I hate how much God reminds me of my mother.
The bellows have broken out into irradicably fallacies
Death comes marching across the grass, trudging through the weeds. If it had rained in the night or even minutes prior, mud flies across the land, grazing the tips of petals along the flower bed, and further intermixing within itself. The road is in view and the green slowly fades into a soft or dark gray. There are cracks along the road, along it’s edges and directly in the center, likely remnants of a building that aged out of community. The pathology wore out. The mud seeps in between the cracks. The rebirth is ongoing.
