Women know well the body’s intellect. We understand early our rhythm is bound to the sway of the planet and its moon.
My faulty clock holds its breath, then releases all at once. It emphasizes my separation from the world, tells me I am a being offbeat. Still I wind up, I tick, exhale circles.
When the blood comes, it will be at the wrong time. It will cripple me with its intensity. It will tweak my chemistry almost to the point that I become a different woman. I will hide from the world as much as I can, this other me that is constantly restless, in pain, in desire, irritable at every imposed confine.
I hide in the womb of my room until I’m ready to birth myself once more.