the bitch is back

When a woman is her ripest, when she can sense her femininity in the most profound sense. When her breasts are tender, and her abdomen tight and her dark inner sanctum heaving with romantic biology. When she embraces the wildness inside and throws her head back in complete surrender to the moondance that echoes the songs of her generational mothers and sisters. When she is perfectly female and her skin glows with the pride of estrogen, and the pheromones of fertility entwine her like an aura, the sweetest and most sultry of perfumes to the throngs who follow in her goddess wake.


I'm on day 6. My breasts feel saggy, my abdomen bloated, and my dark inner sanctum is heaving like a freshman in a hazing rite. The wildness inside is subdued with wine and my head is lolling back in complete exhaustion to the hormones that echo a time when all this biology might have made sense. And my skin glows from an increase in the activity of sebaceous glands and there's been a random dry patch on my chin for a week, like a biscuit island in a sea of olive oil. And the pheromones of fertility scream "don't touch me!" lest you be bitten, while the two brands of deodorant battle like soldiers in tandem to keep this goddess' pits from stinking the houseplants to a wilted fate.

But it's okay.

Cause as long as there are bodily functions and fluids, there will be products to absorb them, trap them, lighten them, stop them, and tell you you're pretty.

And as long as I'm a female, which juuuuust might be forever at this point, I'll ride this crimson tide out with nary a complaint. I'm kind of a fan of the process, to be honest. I am self-cleaning! I don't have to do anything to make this happen, just whoooosh, ta da! Drip dry and start fresh.

And so, my sisters in menses! I leave you with this. A bright red spot on an otherwise gray day.


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