Blood of my blood

I felt it

between my thighs—

a rush of watery joy,

warm and ancient.

I lifted my veil,

passed two fingers through,

and looked.

It was red.

I laughed—

overjoyed,

terrified.

I do bleed.

I did bleed—

for four days straight,

like an unstitched prayer

a leaking truth.

A living wound.

Open.

Unhealed.

Unsealed.

Mine.

And not.

A deaf womb

hummed inside me,

a song with no mouth—

just echoes of a purpose

never fulfilled.

Never preserved.

I cry.

I bled like the moon

too full of silence,

too ancient for shame.

I bled like witches do—

before they burn.

I cried with my last breath.

Silence prevailed.

Suffocation.

Every month since—

I drown again

in that old, familiar flood.

The crimson tide returns

to ask me "who are you?"

I wonder.

Red filling my lungs.

I whisper:

"Lord, I bled again.

Will you forgive me this time?"

My thighs speak truths

no altar could hold.

And still—

I sit on porcelain thrones,

palming my belly,

counting curses.

Bruising with stones.

Blood gathers

like small betrayals

in my underwear.

I wonder:

Is this sin?

Is this sacred?

Is this how it feels to be holy?

A sacrifice unborn?

A child that chose silence?

Or maybe a god

that changed its mind?

I bleed in circles,

a clock made of pain.

A calendar of grief.

A gospel of flesh.

Somewhere,

a god is watching me become—

and says nothing.

Maybe blind to blood.

Maybe deaf to cries

Maybe mute to death

I was told

this was womanhood.

They never said

it would feel like

haunting myself.

A ritual of gore.

I bleed,

and I wonder

if I'm becoming

something more

each time I do.

Or I'm losing

Parts of me

With each drop.