I also think people who try to avoid cliches are the biggest cliches of all.
I've been bleeding for exactly 30 days. At this point I can be described as withered, grey and slow. It could always be worse of course. I could be pregnant. Other possibilities are still on the table.
I've tried to paint the pain a few times. It usually ends up looking like a big tangle of red and black lines crumpled and stuffed in the lower abdomen and spreading through the femurs like growing pains. It's a stretching kind of pain in the legs, you feel you are being pulled and torn, to no use. There's no growth, just punishment. In the abdomen it feels like a hard black knot the size of a fist. I feel it's about to burst. & I want it to burst so I'm relieved but I'm also scared it might shred my insides. You don't have much analytical and biological wisdom handy when you are awakened by the tearing pain at 3 am. You just go with it.
I loathe my body these days, this bleeding whimpering wounded animal. I don't want to, but what I feel every time I wipe myself is not sympathy, it's exhaustion, disappointment. Like when the garden starts dying at the end of summer and you just can't bear the sight of the withering thin branches of the dried up tomato vines with two deformed green leaves that won't just die already.
P.S. I may be a victim of hormonal unbalance.
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