Full Moon Bloodletting Drama, and the insatiable desire to cry.

I am softened by the blood trickling off of my fur and onto my underwear.

I am softened by the calm that has erupted.

Like a cyst torn open, I am free.

It’s real you know.

PMDD is real.

It is an invisible disease that women carry with class between the legs. It is impenetrable and freeflying.

No belly-to-earth.

Just vertical lines drawn with ghostly ink.

How do you explain to the average human man that you want to escape yourself by dying. That this feeling of filling up and drowning in the chatter and applause of your own mind is something that you’d much rather not feel, and that you’d much rather die?

It sounds ridiculous. Dramatic. But it is as real as the sky and the rain.

Just as vast and just as teeming.

It drives me to heavy weeping; saltwater rain.

Tasty. Thick. Necessary.

Ablution.

My eyes, the sacred containers.

I get paranoid.

I remember things that happened in 2006 in vivid detail.

I remind myself of all the bad things that have ever happened to me.

I make myself look in the mirror and ridicule every single ugly thing that I believe to be an ugly thing.

I cry because I have hurt people badly, and I can still feel the pain I’ve left behind.

I cry because people have hurt me badly and I can still feel the pain they’ve left behind.

I remind myself that I come from jungles and that I’m lucky to be here, amongst all of you, all of you reading this.

I should’ve either died or had 4 children.

If I had stayed, I would’ve been a sniper, or perhaps a mother.

Perhaps my own mother.

That is what I became.

I became a mother, to myself; and now that’s the part that soothes.

Me.

The mother.

I, mother me.

The me that was ignored.

She is bursting.

Always laughing.

Always crying.

Now, my mouth is thirsty because you can’t swallow that many tears and not get thirsty. Then, the fatigue comes like a million magnets pushing down on bones that’ve turned to lead. The dry mouth, parched and heavy. The heavy hand with brick fingers, and that hunger and that sadness and that chatter, and fuck— I am a million planets singing, I am an atom’s shadow. I am the moon, and yes, the calm only comes when the moon fills up, like I’ve filled up, fuck I am about to fucking burst, the moon, I can see her through my windows, she is beautiful in her rotund, she is me. And he looks at me, and I kiss his hand because I love his hands, they are magic tendons on muscle and deserve an altar. He sees this side of me, and remains…

I am softened by the blood trickling off of my fur and onto my underwear.

I am softened by the calm that has erupted.

Like a cyst torn open, I am free.

One thought on “Full Moon Bloodletting Drama, and the insatiable desire to cry.”

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