Fullstop


It's that terrible time of the month again; the one where I have to grab my midriff intermittently and cry out to whoever cares to listen. The one where I abandoned my bed and lay exhausted on a dusty haggard mattress with no covers, hoping that it is not dripping blood in the morning and still expecting that it is.

Today is a little different. It's my sister's birthday and I should be elated, but a dark cloud hangs over my head and bitterness rises like bile from my stomach; burning my tongue as it pleases. Sleep eludes me. Hours after the rest of the world has retired, I toss and turn and wait for dawn.

I have changed my underwear twice tonight. I have even reinforced the blood cloth between my thighs with pads of tissue, but the thick fluid still finds a way out to the world like the truth seeking light and a scorned woman in search of justice. It slithers out of my body deliberately  until it has penetrated every item of clothing I have worn and it has drawn yet another red map on my haggard mattress.

I am exhausted. My eyes are begging to be laid to rest, but each time I shut them, an invisible hand from the depth of my belly grabs the nearest pound of flesh and squeezes away and the sleep vanishes from my eyes like a puff of smoke.

So yes, I have resorted to writing as it is the only purgative I know. It is my sole means of letting the other half of the world understand my pain and empathize; the ones who shoot sperm with ease but do not know how we struggle to maintain the wombs that harbour those swimmers and give them life.

I hate them and how lucky they are. If I could choose at this desperate moment of mine, I would definitely be a man in my next life; a fine one at that. But I cannot vouch for my response in the morning. For then, the pain would have left me and my sanity would have returned and I will be damned if I am not proud to be the woman I am today.

#TheRitaSide

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