And I bleed

Every month I bleed. I have done so since I was thirteen years old. It seems enfuriatingly apt that women bleed, and that it is an unspoken thing. A metaphor for all the other silent bleeding and sacrifices that women do, every single day of their lives; women, mothers, wives and daughters.

Because this bleeding I do, it was not something I asked to do. And I do it on behalf of my whole family; my children, who would not be here without it. My husband, who would not be a father if I did not. My parents, who would not be grandparents.

Everyone gains from this bleeding, and yet it is not celebrated, it is silenced, and those who openly bleed are shamed.

Why?

For me, this is more and more a sign of troubling inequalities that still exist in our society. Time for some change, I say.

Celebrate the whole bloody mess for what it is, I say, the lifeblood of our existence.

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