Haemolacria: An ode to weeping wombs.

It's the only time I get to view the red seas that dwell inside of me absent the fear of death's arrival. Carmine, crimson waves relieve me of this past month's cervical impacts. Ruby geode pattern stained panties, copper scented maroon imbrued by a womb in mourning. How many times shall my vagina experience the deathly blows of men's lust and never allow passage the true potential of new life? 

A heaviness, I feel as my magma seeping Pompeian pussy erupts. I enjoy the heat, I enjoy the smell. . . I enjoy the subtle pain as the desires of men and their institutions are set afire. 

I enjoy the sexual solitude, for now, I've become undesireable. To men. And the God they've created for me to worship. I am prohibited from the feel of the Quran, and the massage of the masjid's carpeted floor upon my forehead positioned in sujood. 

And I am empty. Marginalized. Forbidden to touch. 

And my womb cries out red tears from a red sea, not even Moses could have crossed. My womb wails at the vacancy that mocks a nugatory battle I am forced to fight. My womb sobs its burnt umber tears as for once no one is laying claim to its home, its body.

I ask myself, "What war is won without the presence of bloodshed?"

So, we bleed the silent tears of our wombs, as we continue on in the perpetual war that it is to be. . .

Woman.