Red Curse

1.

Imagine a teenage girl,

blue-lipped and dripping that clean

pool stench, squatting

in the elevator.

Now hear the elevator ding

and it must be her floor

because she’s beginning to stand, carefully

as if she’s trying not to knock

something off a shelf inside her. She

and her dripping friend, both wrapped

in pristinely white towels shuffle

through the doors and the squatting

girl’s friend stops cold. Your towel.

See them hurry to the bathroom.

See her sitting in a stall, breathing,

each breath reminding her of what’s between

her legs.

See her thank God for chlorine as she scrubs

the redness out of her swimsuit.

See the two girls look at each other as she

holds up the perfect white towel with a perfect

red circle in the middle, one with sympathy,

the other shame.

See her stuff it into the trash and hope

no one finds it and starts looking for a body.

Know that every Japanese flag

and every ache in her belly

won’t let her forget.

2.

Sometimes I

apologize to my underwear.

I fill trash cans with little pink

bows and pastel lace

while my brothers have worn

the same plaid since middle

school. Sometimes I ask my sheets

if they knew what they

were getting into when

they were dyed pink. Did they know

who would be sleeping between them?

Sometimes I tell my pants

not to worry. Maybe in thirty

years I’ll stop giving them

polka dots.

3.

Buy a latte.

Walk to the bus stop.

See strangers stare as you grip your skirt.

Sit with your knees together.

Hold your skirt down; the wind is handsy today.

Feel something slipping inside you like the coffee cup in your clammy hands.

Find comfort in your preparedness.

Feel the inner coffee cup fall.

Realize you weren’t prepared enough as it shatters.

Brace yourself for the red waves overtaking you.

Try not to cry when you call your mom.

Let relief wash out the coffee stains when her car pulls up.

Feel the relief leave when you stand and find your white shoes soaked in coffee.

Get in the car.

Sit like your ass is a bomb.

Try to hold in your break down so you don’t break another coffee cup.

Start hyperventilating instead.

Make it home.

Stare at your red face in the mirror.

Notice the stains on the dress you borrowed.

Wonder if she would notice if you burned it.

Wash off the coffee, finally.

Scrub and scrub, but never manage to get the stains out.

4.

For so long, there was a monster living

within me. He chewed my insides to a pulp

and every month he told me I was worthless.

I whispered my bloody stories

like battle hymns. I ended

my sentences with shame.

But now, I am a war survivor.

I am a life giver.

I am a blood shedder.

I am a girl.