Dark hair, native soil where the blood of slaves, the blood of ancestors mingles with the dirt. The blood of hanged men. The milk of mothers, of chicken's blood and red dust on the ground. What is it when a woman bleeds? I've bled once too many times, a conception ill-conceived, an idea half-formed, the fear is that I can't do it again. The fear is that I'm cursed. It's just who I am. Fuck.
That kind of curse.
The pain of being a woman, of always being on a cycle. Spinning. Blood as thick as thieves. The night came and you were stolen away from me. Quiet as cat's feet, clawing me from the inside. A stream, the hearse, another lullaby in verse. What could be worse? To endure this course, this curse of course. Where intercourse could mean divorce. Or devotion.
I'm stuck. Not stuck. I'm fluid. The fluid of ages, of women's wiseblood, the genetic manifestation of all those mothers and fathers. The being inside me who never became. Who was and who then wasn't. What was the agreement? Where do any of us ever start, or end?
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