#periods
I’m drinking a martini
communing with my phone.
I’m in a bad mood
and clearly, I want to be alone.
Peter (my bf) and I came to this fine restaurant on purpose
- when I’m surly, I seek luxury
The deep warm hues of mahogany,
the chandelier facets of Baccarat glassware,
- that turn a martini into a galaxy of glitter -
the whispered, opulent luster of Christofle silver,
and the high-reflective white of 100% Irish linen
sooth me - we’re here about every 28 days.
The cocktail and the atmosphere are starting to work.
Martinis are high gravity and I’m starting to feel the spin.
You can't drown demons with alcohol, they can swim,
but you CAN seek a little anosognosia.
A stock, 30-ish man, thick wavy hair, open collar
and a suit stuffed with overconfidence
is suddenly at my table, lavishing me with
questionable, over-reaching compliments.
Do I appear wanting of some calculated,
and algorithmic pickup line?
Am I just available for anybody?
I respect the hustle,
but my patience is at absolute zero
I can’t just give him an eye roll
I have to say something.
I want to say, “stop [you know] bothering me.”
but I pour on the impulse control.
“I have a boyfriend,” I say,
it’s the simplest sentence I can spare
and after a moment, it works and he leaves.
Seconds later Peter returns
he’d stepped outside for a phone call.
“How YOU DOin’?” he asked in a fake accent.
I shrug, he knows my climate.
I don’t have to pretend anything with him.
“Where are we on the menu?” He tacks.
I answer in the non-sequitur,
“I miss Yale’s creole fish sandwiches
- I was mad about them.”
Peter updoged, “Apple spice ring cakes.”
(a seasonal Yale dining hall favorite)
and we say ‘mmmmm’ in unison.
.
.
A song for this:
A Change Will Do You Good by Sheryl Crow
WAP (Lounge Version) by Richard Cheese [E] [E] [E]
Feb 23
Feb 23, 2026 at 1:09 PM UTC
is that a period?
no, better put one there.
a comma next, right here?
no, that's a period.
why are there dashes
between 'nine-inches-tall'?
oh, that's a smudge.
i need isopropyl alcohol
to clean up the ****
from eating fudge
and having fun
Nov 23, 2025
Nov 23, 2025 at 3:56 AM UTC
Pain surges through my body,
No matter how I sit, how I lay,
I feel like I have been stabbed.
It’s just period pain.
Just is a funny word, it implies it could be worse,
Maybe it could, but as the pain travels down to my thigh, to my knee, then up again to my lower back,
I’m not sure it could get worse.
The nausea kicks in, I feel faint,
Am I swaying?
I stumble to the toilet, retching with agony,
My body tries to get rid of the sin; Of the apple Eve ate,
But it feels hopeless.
I begin to burn up,
So I fling myself to the cold cool bathroom tiles,
What else am I to do?
The room is swallowed by misery, myself as well,
I can do nothing but lay on the floor and take it,
Every four weeks,
Again and again I am tormented; punished,
And for what?
What have I accomplished that is equal to this, Monstrosity?
Nov 15, 2025
Nov 15, 2025 at 9:27 PM UTC
have you ever grappled with despair
not in imagery, symbolism or portrayal.
I mean, have you ever felt the elevator drop
the watery weakness that extenuates breath
a depth of fatigue that makes lying on the floor a burden
an aching pounding in your chest,
the broken-glass dryness in your throat
the gritty ache in your eyes
that makes you want to close them forever?
Struggle no more, leaden limbs,
free the weary weight.
Eyes that struggle, release the light.
The body begs to no more fight.
In a blur of sluggish thought,
I whisper sleep's sweet name.
The will has dropped.
The yearning stopped.
I’ll rest on that distant shore.
.
.
Songs for this:
Nessun Dorma by Sarah Brightman
Caruso (Live at "Pavarotti International" Charity Gala Concert, Modena 1992) by Luciano Pavarotti, Aldo Sisilli
Pie Jesu by Andrew Lloyd Webber, Sarah Brightman & Paul Miles-Kingston
0730.0722
Jul 22, 2024
Jul 22, 2024 at 7:01 AM UTC
Everyone was lazing around, it being the holidays. The intercom buzzed and Lisa got there first to press answer. “Package, on the way up,” the concierge announced. This time of year, a package could be a late arriving gift, there was interest.
It takes a hot minute for elevator three to get to the 50th floor and in those moments, we waited. The foyer of Lisa’s suite looks like a half circle with three doors. To the left is the library (Michael’s office), to the right is a hall leading to bedrooms and straight ahead is the living room.
Lisa was already at the front door. Karen (Lisa’s mom) came into the foyer from the hall and Michael was heads-up at his desk, when the front door finally buzzed. An iPad sized monitor showed a messenger with a bouquet of flowers. “OOO!” Lisa said, opening the door and signing for it.
“Whad we get?” Leeza asked, flying into the foyer, like a vulture, from the living room and saying, “OOO!” When she saw the flowers, following up with ***** they for?!”
“Anais,” Karen said with a grin, reading the envelope as Lisa turned the vase for a 360 view.
I was in the living room playing “Disney Dreamlight Valley” on my Nintendo switch when Lisa, followed closely by Leeza, came in with the flowers. “Oh, WOW,” I said, sitting up when I saw them.
“They’re for YOU,” Lisa said, trying to make it sound all casual, but her grin gave the truth away. Leeza gave a hoot of suppressed excitement when I grinned.
Leeza had her phone in hand and took a picture as I accepted the vase from Lisa, setting it on the coffee table as I opened the card. A moment later Leeza pronounced, “It’s a “Warm Embrace Arrangement.” Gen-alphas can research anything, in moments, from their phones. “It cost,” She started to say, and Lisa elbowed her, “OWW!” She exclaimed, then “175 dollars,” as she completed her thought, rubbing her ribs, and took a seat next to me.
“They’re from Peter,” I revealed, (who really can’t afford to spend $175 on flowers).
A week ago (Tuesday), I woke up in a rage, on a vendetta. My eyes opened, and the world seemed dark, like a newly opened box of slights and irritations. Shadows seemed to reach out and the very air seemed gritty and annoying. I wanted to yell at people and maybe ****** someone.
“Remember last week,” I asked the room, “when I was in a funk?”
“I was a witness,” Leeza said chuckling, “I can confirm.” Lisa just nodded.
“Yeah, I needed to rant and you were there,” I patted Leeza’s knee, “Thanks, sorry.”
“All you listened to for days was Rihanna,” Leeza reported, shaking her head.
“It lasted for two days,” I said, wincing at the memory,” that’s when I sent Peter that message.”
“Ahhh,” Lisa nodded, “I get it.”
“Yep,” I nodded back at Lisa, “got my period the next day, it doesn’t usually hit like that.” I said defensively.”
“That explains a lot.” Leeza grinned.
“But look!” Lisa said, putting her arms out like Vanna White, “You got flowers!”
“Poor Peter,” I said, sighing, “I better call him.”
Jan 2, 2023
Jan 2, 2023 at 3:04 PM UTC
Imagine if men were more disgusted with **** as much as they are with periods.
Oct 26, 2022
Oct 26, 2022 at 11:09 AM UTC
It was almost a birthmark, a death sentence embossed on the deepest crevice on her heart. Grace had always known that the noble blood fleshed her existence. In return of power and glory, she must wear the brightest crown which will light the horizons to a warm shade of amber. That someday she would rise together with the sun and cradle the stars with this invigorating honor.
The princess fancied the notion of becoming next queen for its promised delight as other royals often tell her. Every time she shut death to birthday candles, it was all that she wished from the watching gods above. To be the perfect heir, the ideal ruler, and especially, the greatest candidate for the crown.
From the gardens waved the precocious white bloom of calla lilies. The clouds were a dash of milk frozen from the never ending stretch of blue. Faint chirps of birds echoed around the towers. On the palace ground, Grace acquired skills of a squire, for it was written through time she would defend this very castle in her hands. Days were occupied with lessons and lunches, meetings with lords and charities. She was a lady of compassion, inherited the old queen’s discipline and sophistication. The townspeople loved her greatly. They cherished her like a living ornament caught in a sea of the unlikely. A depiction of a good woman whose soul was constructed to comply with the rules and duties she is given. Accustomed from the expectations, the princess endures hardships, turning predicaments into something magnificent. The entire kingdom was pleased. And only then, the exploring winds tell otherwise.
Nobody knew Grace wanted to dance. There was this rhythm of renaissance enough to make her pointe shoes swoon across the dungeon room, her shadow--the audience. Instead of being entertained by minstrels, she would prefer the empty theater which she calls home whenever the sun sinks a sudden thought of change. Or that one time she secretly headed for the woods, not far from the stream, and put on a show for the skeletal trees to applaud to. A perfect piece of broken melody. That is what she all was. Her desires transformed into a banquet she must not feast on.
Because she is everything the crown is not.
A young amateur star, an artist of fascination, and a dreamer of the unknown. Perhaps, these were enough reasons why she became a magnet for chaos and everlasting detriments. It murdered her during the day-- kissed her a goodnight. The almond eyes that sync with her cinnamon tea, swirling in brown, blinked briny tears. From withstanding the pain, sustaining the hold, even though the harsh fate made its call. The only concept which drove her far is everyone’s acceptance.
But who could she be really? A figment on the stage? If at each glide the eyes foresee her as a rebel, much to her chagrin, who would look at her then? If the depth of the ocean has been buried within her voice, to everyone’s astonishment, who would listen to her anyways? What if she does not fulfill the responsibility which the kingdom predetermined for her, approved of her? Who would love Grace?
She built an empire so high, she cannot climb down her own stairs.
The message of the wind sounded like a terrible lullaby. It was too venomous for her dilemma. Because until this moment, this scenery, this pronounced living, she never stop hoping that one day, she will no longer be a stranger to herself. When the archbishop lifted the crown from the velvet cushion, the stones shimmered its vow as the brightest. The Queen’s authority shined through all of them. Before she sheds a tear, it already settled on her head, delicate and ethereal, faultless. Grace realized she spent most of her life fitting the crown which does not belong to her in any form.
No! She is not going to mourn another morning, nor sleep the night with a heavy heart. Fear might threatened to slit her throat, but she was not having it! The princess unveiled her mask and hurled the kingdom’s crown beyond the assembly.
“What a disgrace!” They thundered.
The formation of her identity is what stunned the people. None of them expected such disaster to occur, due to this, her royal majesty has sent all white horses in search of the beloved child. Nowhere to be found, her linen dresses flickered in fire while the crowd stared in horror. And she was nothing, but a forgotten soul.
Trees were once again clothed in green after the icy blaze of winter. The princess raced through the minty grasses and drank the enchanting smell of lilac, almost like a doe playing in the wild. She felt light as a feather, dancing in joyful exuberance. Other girls joined her below the white sunshine as they twirled and sang. It was the perfect moment to reveal the blind side buried for so many times. The blood that once dripped in the glass of her ill-reflection began to fill the rims of imperfection. Luminescence was so brilliant she had to squint to see.
The brightest crown anyone can wear is to be their true selves. No matter who you were born to, or where you live, despite the obstacles, and consequences. It does not make you less of a person, for you already are complete.
She was not a disgrace. It is still Grace after all.
THIS GRACE…
Aug 11, 2020
Aug 11, 2020 at 6:44 PM UTC
Inside my underwear I thought
A red flower had fluttered in,
And stuck itself there like sap.
Inside my underwear I thought
I had spilt a spoon of strawberry jam,
It felt so sticky on my fingers.
Inside my underwear I thought
A crimson blob of sea anemone
Had swum on out of me globosely.
Turns out it was only blood,
Only blood, only blood
I wasn’t even frightened
Even when it started hurting
I’ve always found it pretty
Growing pools of tulips
Inside my underwear.
Mar 10, 2020
Mar 10, 2020 at 12:02 PM UTC
Time may be elementary
moments lost in motion
Quiet periods provide
a power in between the lines
It's potency lies from within
Some gifts are given but not received
and hard to read for us to
see these silent signs
Jan 19, 2020
Jan 19, 2020 at 1:40 PM UTC
My birth certificate was written in the blood “she”
(I, me, they) would one day shed from the bleeding body
Given to me by who knows what (how does it bleed without being
Cut) because my ***** is not cognitive of what it is (nothing)
To me and my period is done to me you can’t know what it does
To me but it has nothing (nothing) to do with me
And I’ll never be able to speak of the violence it acts on me
To bleed (and bleed) and be called “she”
Because wars have been fought in my ***** (does
This mean I’m a war criminal) and I am all scars and all blood and my body
Is not a graveyard because a graveyard holds something but I hold nothing
I want to hold (nothing) for my period to stop being
Misgendered because “shesheshe” is not my being
“She” wants to be a prophecy but the violence of “she” slices me
The repetition of “she” of the tiny letter “F” in blood ink does (nothing)
Does battles on me (does violence) because the repetition of “she”
Is not enough to create a prophecy and words do not change my body
Believe me I have tried (I have tried) but nothing does
Because my body is vein-seeped concrete my body does
Everything I don’t want it to but somehow without being
My enemy because the wars fought in my ***** (on my body)
Were not fought by me and the violence of my body is not me
It is every ************ who has called me “she”
And the violence of my period compared to “she” is nothing
But my period wouldn’t be violent if it was labelled as nothing
If “she” wasn’t written in blood my period wouldn’t do what it does
(To me) but blood has no gender I have no gender “she”
Is not my ****** gender because my ***** is an ***** being
Exactly what it’s supposed to be not “she” but me
(I, they) functioning as a reminder of the wars fought on my body
The concrete gravestones tumbled on my body
The victory celebration on my body where violence is nothing
Because “she” is nothing not concrete or a graveyard to me
So I will mishear “she” and I am free from what it does
From my birth certificate blood drenched burning “she”
Is gone my violence is gone I have brought myself (they, I) into being and
My body is not a graveyard it is a sanctuary “she”
Cannot enter nothing but my they-being
Can enter because I (me, they) know what it does
Aug 15, 2019
Aug 15, 2019 at 6:55 PM UTC
“Look at the state of you.”
Mum joins me in the bathroom,
Lays down next to me
And holds my hand.
I cry,
Unable to move.
My insides clenching,
churning,
cramping,
eating away at itself.
Blood dripping down my leg,
The sign of womanhood
Apparently.
Would it be too big headed
To compare my
Monthly pain with the state
Of the planet
Or the governments
Of various countries?
I could be so egotistical
That I say that we’re all
Laying next to a screaming
Figure, laying on a bathroom floor.
I won’t be a ***** about it,
So I’ll just imply it.
Apr 27, 2019
Apr 27, 2019 at 6:23 PM UTC
i am but a child with my eyes closed believing i am invisible
cloaked in my own curiosity
i tiptoe over sentences and ask about big words like
what does ************ mean?
My mother told me don't ask for it
What is it?
How do I paint my nails red without smearing the Polish?
When i felt (becoming a woman) run down my legs along went my wonder, childlike
My body was now poetic in the way it wrote verses across the pad
Apr 18, 2019
Apr 18, 2019 at 10:42 AM UTC
Red, is the colour of Love.
Red, is the colour of courage.
Red, is the colour of strength.
Red, is the colour of bravery.
But then why does the red colour on my jeans, has to stop me ?
Why, every month do girls need to question their potential ?
Why can't I say the word 'PERIODS' in public?
I'm afraid all the while,
This word has to be in hushed tones, in 'whispers', so that I 'stay free' of the whispers behind my back.
I need to carry sofy, so that I stay confident and comfy.
When my emotions have to be concealed behind the four walls,
But every night,
I fear that the wind would silently come while I'm asleep.
And would laugh and chatter with the trees about me insecurities.
I know that my periods are my strength.
My periods don't cage me because I am a bird set free.
I am the Lady Bhagirath,
For I resurrect the sacred red river, once, every month.
Now I go out more easily when on my periods,
rather than staying at home and now I walk with pride.
Now I don't bring my pads wrapped in the black bags because I am not ashamed of carrying them .
I was Daddy's Little Prince who's now become a Wonder Woman.
So I tell every girl to walk with pride,
Not because they say
'Chin up princess or the crown slips'
But because I say
'Keep your head held high wonder woman or you won't be able to fly.
Oct 24, 2018
Oct 24, 2018 at 10:09 AM UTC
Second by second, minute by minute
Like twenty first century robots
The time keeper keeps periods of time
organized in individual slots
He dissects these periods methodically
Creating mysterious time lines
Cause that's his thing, his own thing
Just to blow away our minds
Jun 28, 2018
Jun 28, 2018 at 12:11 AM UTC
education
we
had
words
only
she
still
has
an
?
...
..
.
Jan 19, 2018
Jan 19, 2018 at 7:45 AM UTC
Yes ! I am a girl
And I have a monthly guest
It comes without any messages ,without phone calls
Just with the flow of pain
Always endures me
I get lots of gifts
ache in bloatted belly
breaking back
Death hanging in the waist
pimples blush at the cheeks
Yeah ! I have periods
Red petals stain
in my beautiful white dress
like a bouquet of roses
These cease pains garden my womb
To be a perfect clock
without tick tock and bell
But runs for nine month
Just to change
****** ***** into a baby...
Nov 22, 2017
Nov 22, 2017 at 9:06 AM UTC
They ask if I bleed
I do not want to answer
It's the wrong body
Aug 17, 2017
Aug 17, 2017 at 6:23 PM UTC
I first felt her flow as Blue Lady tea steeped on a delicately crafted doily.
Cranberry Orange Scones paired with doll-sized cutlery.
I’d be excused.
A late bloomer,
steeping slowly from the flowering buds of my very own teapot.
Mothers, sisters, friends, daughters together
sharing a Blue winter in that tea shop.
When at fourteen, womanhood gifted
me the first of many
moments.
This would spark my wondering why women weren’t known
solely for their strength, rich in resilience,
like the blackest tea.
As Blue Lady steeped steadily from the table to the lady’s room.
Anna Blake
Mar 27, 2017
Mar 27, 2017 at 11:59 AM UTC
When my imaginations
started stripping in front of me
and I saw
its naked body,
I realized
stains of blood
on my white beautiful cloth
and I cried a lot
Do not know why
Maybe I was afraid of the pain
that will return to me
in every month
or fingers, eyes
that will point out on me
if I could not hide bright red stains
on my cloth
But I was not knowing
those drops of blood
will grow into
bones and muscles
tiny eyes, hands and fingers
and the most beautiful smile
Those are the brave drops of blood
that could make me
a “Mother”
before which
neither pain nor fear
matters
Dec 30, 2016
Dec 30, 2016 at 6:32 AM UTC
Don't wear the white skirts
The white underwear
The white dress
The white pants
Unless you want red splotches
Oh you, want to look cute today
You aren't expecting me for another week
Here, let me ruin this for you
***** you wanna go?*
Okay, who has the ****** pills?
...the what...?
Ibuprofen!
****** just hand it over
And the blood just keeps flowing
Also, how the **** did someone determine
The average of
1 teaspoon of blood loss per month
Actually, I don't wanna know
So sorry I forgot to get pregnant
Now Mother Nature has to be a ****
Oh wait, that's what's causing this pain
.
.
.
******* girl problems
Sep 27, 2016
Sep 27, 2016 at 12:52 PM UTC
It is too early, or too late, and
you are scrubbing your underwear
in the bathroom sink.
The light is white, and cold, and
the water is pink, and cold, and
your fingers are stiff, and cold.
Ice water and hand soap,
the tried and true recipe
for unset bloodstains.
It’s unsettling something else, too;
something coming undone in your chest
and pushing your lungs into
your throat. A Gordian knot
that loosens and loops
until you are so tangled
you lay down and hold still,
the better to swallow your frustration
my dear. It is shame, perhaps,
or shame by another name.
There is this thought
that turning your hands
into blunt instruments
by freezing the blood in your veins
will keep it from seeping
hot and sticky and clotting
like your frustration
in your hair and your throat,
and you just want
to be clean. By morning
your fingers will bend again,
but there will always be
a faint stain, a pink ghost
that you cannot scrub out.
A tiny haunting,
a sigh on laundry days.
But there’s no use crying
over spilled milk, or blood,
as the case may be.
Only more threads to pick at,
more low and high pressure
fronts moving through you;
lightning in the roots
of your teeth, acid rain
being used as bleach.
Sep 12, 2016
Sep 12, 2016 at 11:42 PM UTC
Fourteen years ago, I planted a rose in my garden.
It grows twisted, against the fence, and bursts into bloom come June -
From my window I feel it glowing
soft pink in the light of the waxing and waning moon
It is my August nymph. And stuns me in brimming scarlet.
But the moon rises like the tide in wet ochre
And my body reeks of iron and emptiness -
The end of the lunar cycle draws closer
And petals fall apart, loose from the bud -
I must learn to accept that my body yearns to spit back blood.
Like crimson. Velvet crimson roses.
I've come to recognize the scent of dying flowers
almost to the hours - Sweet honeyed rotting from within
The decay of rosy innards and floral resin
God punishes all things beautiful with transience.
What a thing to leave a rose to chance...
But all flowers must die in order to grow again!
You would not think that porcelain could rot
But girls and roses share a lot;
And for summer flowers to be sweet and fresh
Blossoms bleed more than you thought.
Aug 13, 2016
Aug 13, 2016 at 6:31 PM UTC
My back hurts so bad,
But nobody will help,
Please let me die now.
Sep 17, 2015
Sep 17, 2015 at 12:03 PM UTC