At least now I know I wasn’t losing my shit for no reason.
It was blood on the brain
and war in the womb.
Let the purge begin.
I cleared my schedule in advance to prep for battle.
Period underwear drawer’s locked and loaded.
Fuck tampons and cups,
she’s not here to be blocked.
She came to bleed.
I flush and walk to the closet, folded in half with my hand pressing against my stomach.
I grab The Fuckening Basket from the shelf, wincing,
then shake the ibuprofen bottle.
One sad little pill ricochets off the side,
laughing.
“Oh, you gotta be fuckin’ kiddin’.”
Heating pad? Missing.
Candle? Burned to the stub.
Chocolate-covered cherries? Gone.
I don’t leave the penthouse during this.
Rest only. Movement is treason.
There’s only one thing left to do.
Today, 7:23 am
Celie
Emergency. The Fuckening is here.
Wine. Chocolate. Wipes. Heating pad. Advil.
And a red candle if you can find one.
No apple scented. Go, go, go.
Celie:
Working.
I got three pins in my hair, two in my lungs, and no free hands. Sorry bitch.
