These tears are blood the unease of menarche.
Feet swing from the toilet coping with agony.
Confliction arises. I did as the dying do,
outstretched hands into air, asked God
to forgive me of all sin.
I call out for my mother. She rushes in.
My lips quiver. I tell her with a dry mouth
too afraid to say goodbye,
“I can’t stop the bleeding.
I am dying.”
She looks down at my underwear
and approaches me with Messiah’s smile.
“My daughter you will live.” she says.
I glance at my savior, my creator
see her with newborn eyes
for the first time thankful.