Over the sound of my sobs
the yelling gradually stops
Crystal’s soft voice
outside the door
tells me to let her in.
I sit on the closed lid of the toilet
we both stare at the floor.
I adjust the toilet paper
stuffed in
the crotch of my jeans. Wince.
“You don’t have
your period.”
Not a question.
Our cycles are synched.
She knows that isn’t
period blood
pooled on the bed.
As she drives us home
my ears ring with
rage that my
stupid body
would splash
across an angry stranger’s comforter
humiliating you again.
I force the galvanized image
of my bright blood
in the center of that pale bed
as far down as it will go
clanking into
my basement consciousness
where all my bad experiences
and darkest thoughts fester
and fuse together.
My resolve
a steel door guarding
the entrance to that
dark basement.
It never happened.
Like all the other
exiled memories
this one eventually
gets tired of fighting and
goes to sleep.