Exsanguination

After a switch in medication
She bled every day for a month.

Her body grew soft and sore and swollen,
Like an overripe pear bloating in the hot sun,
And every time she reached between her legs
Her fingers came away slick and maroon.

Each harsh word was a switchblade in her chest,
Jabbing in and out of her heart like a sewing machine needle.

She wept at questions and howled at criticism,
The open raw sorrow of an infant.

Anger boiled and frothed in her for no reason,
Turning small frustrations into explosions.

And still she bled, life draining from her.

Every sneeze was a deluge.

Compliments felt hollow and phony-
Didn’t they know she was bleeding?

And they laughed about feminism, hysteria,
About women’s anger at the way they were treated:
What nags, what witches, what bitches, what whores!

And she bled, every day,
Every single day,

For a month.

But never died.

***

Samantha Roman is a writer and artist from Connecticut. Her work has been published in strange journals and displayed in galleries across the US. She lives with two cats, one partner, and a head full of music. www.samanthakroman.com