There’s a little
white
cotton
monster
who lives up my
sleeve,
and it’s angry,
tired,
of hiding,
beneath fabric,
against wrists,
behind shame.
It’s hungry
for blood,
to catch the
falling red,
drawing it deep
into its dry,
scratchy
frame.
It tries to peek out,
to the open places
Where it can’t be seen,
Like in seventh grade
When it caught sight,
Just once,
When it looked to
The boy sitting next to me
In art class,
and the only things
redder than
Our oil pastels
were my cheeks as
I shoved- I shove- it
back up
into my
forearm,
but it screams,
wiggling
and
bulging.
“Show me”
“recognize me”
“accept me”.
Maybe one day,
we’ll walk,
and the power
of feminine creation
will be revered.
Until then,
my monster
must
stay
in the
dark,
and
contain
its
blinding
rage
from
the
world,
until we can
be
alone
together
and
I shove it
up
further
into
Secrecy.
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