I sit below an artificially white light

The lamp’s lip is stained orange around its rim

A fake light

So bright it lights up the dust hiding in cracks between the pipes on the ground

They stretch out past my bare feet

Painted over, but still permeated by grime

Worn in and out by time

And my feet are cold against the ground

Split into caramel-colored squares  

Divided by blackened cement in perfect straight lines

I breathe in a mix of air freshener and piss

I do what I have to do,

My hands ornamented most un-delicately in blood

Disgusting.

Quite plainly fucking gross.

And I shove what I have to shove

Back into me

And I open the door with my elbow

And I walk to the sink with my legs bound together by my bloody underwear

And I wash them

And I’m careful not to leave a drop of my blood on the sink because it’s gross.

Because he will have to wash his hands

And he will see it

And he will think it is 

Disgusting.

Quite plainly fucking gross.

And he walks in.

And while blood still resides underneath my fingernails

And I’m wearing a white tanktop, too tight, with my nipples protruding through the thin fabric

My skin falling over the skinny straps of my top

The rest of my body naked with streaks of red down my leg

He then shuts the door. 

I look at myself in the mirror;

I stare for a while.

No thoughts,

Just another filthy room and myself in it.

I wash myself.

I inhale, and I exhale, and I leave the bathroom sink.

A man will never understand. 

The life of a woman.

The life in a woman.

The fact that a woman is life.

And the fact that I want a fucking sink in the same room as the fucking toilet so I can use my menstrual cup so I can be environmentally fucking conscious while I bleed from my fucking vagina.