By Shiksha Dheda
*Content Warning: This piece discusses menstruation, body image, mental illness, OCD, and blood.
I hate the colour red.
Loud, lively
– promiscuous.
The stains I tried to hide
-warmth trickling down my
thick trembling thighs-
my body literally
chewing itself
-spitting itself out of my vagina.
Like a thick phlegm ball
when you have a nasty cold.
The bra I felt too ashamed to wear
-C,
larger than most bosoms are at 10.
Too bright.
Too loud.
Too sexy.
Too noticeable
-unwanted attention.
The ribbons I wore in my hair
when I finally decided to let
my hair grow
-past my earlobes-
-past my neckline-
-past my shoulder blades.
When I liked people noticing me,
noticing my femininity
-my womanhood.
When I finally stopped trying to be
a boy
-the son my parents had always waited for
-always wanted-
-always wished for-
but never arrived.
The stains that enshroud my palms
-my fingers-
my nails.
Scrubbing.
Washing
Scrubbing.
Trying to quiet the thoughts in my
monopolised mind;
trying to catch the truant firefly
from burning through all my other
desires
-from eroding what’s left of my personality.
I hate the colour red.
It reminds me that I am still alive.
Summarising my breasts, vagina,
womanhood, disorders and all
-in one
bright burgundy splatter.
Heartland Society of Women Writers 