Sweet and sour sauce sloshes through the turbines. A cotton wool fuselage courtesy of Haemoglobin Airlines. In case of emergency, look beneath your seat, pull the red toggle, find lots of carbs to eat. Not sure how this will land, so I make another rhyme, stealing duty free on board your period should not be considered a crime. I do not want your empathy or your mother’s recipe, I want free stuff every time.
I write when I am angry because I am a woman in revolt. I ask for tampons in every shop I see, Tampons. Tampons. Tampons. But the clerk just blinks at me. Intactness must be expensive in China, my dad just sold my hymen for a fiver, keep the change, he did not even barter. Strike a match, you cotton twisted fire starter.
I stretch into downward dog in the courtyard of this block of flats. A familiar voice says stay at home but I want to start a spat. Neighbours stare so I hold the pose longer, I find beauty in a ceiling fan, sequins do make me stronger. Meditation in Sukhasana, the rolled fragrance of Indian flowers lit, comfort without consent, my heel rubs against my clit. My mood shifts into Beethoven’s Fifth, if you are still trying to follow this red thread, better read my lips.
There are no tampons in China!
Truth
You have had diarrhoea. You know that turn down below, the unmistakable ache when the symphony wants to blow. We have all been there, toilet, privacy, roll in reach. But take away your cotton, your porcelain, nothing gives, no sweet release.
The pain is unrelenting, I know it has to stop, yet I look to my knickers, she delivers nothing but a drop.
I cannot be arsed with poetry anymore, I tell the taxi driver. I feel the relief in waves, remembering the abortions. No, like, seriously, I am not rhyming anymore. He nods, fiddles with the radio, I say this is no moonlit sonata, I tell him I have had sex with 95 men while my boyfriend was sleeping. He raises his eyebrows, I laugh loud and sip my Osmanthus wine like it is medicinal.
The womb is my messenger, I whisper, leaning too close to the glass divider, you will not be a mother. You will pass no secrets onto the next generation you will go to this shopping centre instead.
I am a woman, not a mother, I declare to the car window. Not valued by a mother in law for my reproductive skills. I gorge on chestnuts and naked pictures of someone I probably should not. I taste my own essence, imagine telling his mother: This is what your son really likes to eat.
Our eyes meet in the rear view mirror. He does not blink, just flicks the indicator and cuts the corner. I cackle as im shmushed into my seat. I smear my thumb on the window and imagine her face flushing, her hands grabbing my hair, I do nothing. I peel another chestnut, chew, and lower my head, act out our imaginary confrontation. Slow reactions are cooler, I think.
I pull the crimson veil from my bag and drape it over my cap for effect, tell him it is a warning. I am going reading, I tell him, throw the scarf over my shoulder, it’s not motherhood i’m mourning. Then I lean in, my breath on the glass, intactness is expensive, it short changed me. He is silent so I shrug and slump back unimpressed.
It has been a month in my Vachina, my uterus can attest, today my firewall burns, so my hands doth my mouth arrest.
Btw I’m fine thanks for asking.
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majorloveme 
dope 👊
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