Fertility Rites

Every time the blood comes,

Keeling in pain

more bearable than the emotional hellfire 

it rains to smudge the distinction between who I am and who i know myself to be.

Reminders my individuality is not full choice

And I pray it to stop, the price for my unchosen gender

that I love anyway?

“It’s dirty”

“Holy” – festival of men,

This is the blood of relief I bleed, the water of averted creation.

I can only pray for its end and fear the threat of it

for each visit, reminder of death.

Of how I’m closer, by the month to the end of this bleeding

and the eventual end of this vessel.

Maybe gratitude is nature’s gift.

Pain, her price.

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