Petals of red, the newest bloom in a cycle of seasons I
wade through with my body
holding nothing else but the ghost of a child:

supposedly this is life
and life is a horror story, but it is no coincidence that
this did not happen until I grew
to be the length of the train on a wedding dress.

I will not apologize for finding gore so beautiful, I am
saying so because it is mine –
a slit of skin that is not from a cut
filling the whole
bathtub with blood. I dilute water and material to
make sure they stay mine, the same to men.

If this is a temple,
I want my heart to be in the basement

where everyone I love can run and hide when there is
an emergency, the safe haven
that will flood and dye his face my color because
I did not keep his child this month.