That Time of the Month

To wake, with sweat and thick shame pressed to your back, is a diabolical beginning to each passing month.

We slip from bed, clenching abdomen and bedding, and tiptoe to the bathroom, wary not to wake the man beside us.

The overhead light causes us to squint, so we cannot see the gathering of blood, participants of this clockwork festival, dancing in my underwear.

We sigh, we wince, we shift upon the toilet bowl and wait for the droplets of mass and lining to finish their descent.

The joys of our sex, the blossoming of what some call womanhood, the proof of nothing residing in our uterus, and other such sentiments make our eyes roll as we ball up more toilet paper and continue to clean our sticky, fatigued selves.

We unwrap a pad, and the crackling of plastic wakes our partner, who shifts uncomfortably in bed, his moaning only furthers this agitating ritual.

Now, without restraint, we hike up our shorts and turn on the sink to wash out the blood left behind on my pajamas, we no longer care to tread quietly, we decide to make the discomfort known.

The water gushes and pours, eradicating the evidence of leakage, and somehow calms the prickling of unfairness that always arises this time of the month.

We take ourselves back to bed, and the man slithers closer, wanting to put his heavy arm around our bloated bellies.

We push him away, gently but annoyed, and wait for his snores to fill our room.