they put you on a pedestal but get angry when you do not
allow them a ladder. they assure you that your mother bore you from another planet but are resentful when you do not pay their air fair. ask you to be naturally beautiful but feel outrage when you do not shave the hair that grows on your legs like theirs, your thighs like theirs, like your skin could be human like theirs. but how could it be human like theirs? when you bleed for seven days and still have enough life left in you to insult them with a single syllable. “no.”

this blood that trickles down past knobby knees and spills across an oiled floor, leaving behind bare footprints caked in red. it would be nice to pretend that your ability to create something as amazing as fingernails with only your womb wasn’t treated like a reason to be scrubbed raw, but you’ve washed your hands a thousand times because you’ve learned that the illusion of cleanliness, of smooth skin, of inhuman characteristics that make up the word “girl” is the closest you will ever get to being treated like an actual person. and so you clean under your fingernails and imagine the things you could create if your womb filled with gasoline instead of blood, the things you would burn down with your monthly miracle. like the pedestals and the expectations and all the sharp razors edged in rust.

and soon enough the tips of your fingers are blistering pink and the water runs tepid and your mother reminds you to run to the convenience store. she wants that box of tampons you forgot about while you were despairing over the insignificance of your daily existence. and so you go to the store and hits you one more time that as the sizes go up, so does your disgust factor. these tiny white cotton cylinders that made you so embarrassed to buy at the age of twelve, and how innocent they seem in their plastic wrappings and their blue boxes. how amazing that something so delicate could hold so much weight. the price tags says $10.95. you decide the price is too much for something that makes you feel so pathetic but you buy them anyway.

i offered to tie the strings of my tampons together but apparently that wasn’t the same as “rapunzel, rapunzel, let down your hair.” // S.M. (via scottiemcchottie)

(via spookybacksunday)



have you ever gotten to that certain point in the school year where you just


Ah, yes. The second day.

(via consumable-thoughts)