The T Stands for Tampon

My period makes me weak. I know what other bitches say but my body gets too big for itself. I don’t mean fat, I’m talking about the goddamn negative energy that it creates—it’s too much for me to handle. I feel like I’m going to snap in two, cracking like a crab leg right along my spine. The energy is a runoff from the pain, like the energy I make my art from. The bleeding deflates me. My period is a leech that sucks my blood and spits it out again. I’m left a hobbled scarecrow: an empty, aching husk.

When it’s “that time of the month” I stop what I’m doing and hole up with a fat sack, some music, my notebooks and drawing pads. I don’t answer the phone and I tell anyone who asks that, “I’m sick, I’ve got my period, I need to be left the fuck alone, please—and when you go to the store get me a Jamaican raspberry ginger ale and a box of Cap N’ Crunch…yes, Peanut Butter. I’ll be OK, I’ll eat it dry. What? The remote control? Sure, I’ll take that.”

I don’t do anything all day but smoke my head off and draw faces from the television. Some people have said, “Yeah, but you couldn’t do that if you had a job, women still have to go to work,” and I say, “If I had a job I’d call in sick. Why the fuck not? What’s the phone for? So you don’t have to see someone if you aren’t feeling well and you can just call them and say, ‘hello, I’m not feeling well I’m not coming the fuck in to my stupid-ass job.’”

Sometimes, however, my whole plan gets rearranged, when the pain is so bad and my nerves are so shot and the weed doesn’t work, it just makes everything worse, until I’m pulling at my hair and turning up the stereo to block out the sound of my throbbing heart.
I’m pressed into a coal shaft between the centuries. I want to write it all down but instead it’s leaking out of me, unused, useless.

I’m the young city bandit, hold myself down single handed. Born alone, die alone, no crew to keep my crown of thorns.

I sit by the bedroom window, listening to the traffic reports while cars and trucks snake up the highway on their way to work. I pause to think of the cause of it all before I spark some more shit and lie back in my Rive Gauche pinstripe trousers and wife beater, attempting to relax. The ceiling is still covered with early morning shadow. It seems that it’s always one hand iced with “LOVE” and the other with “HATE”, like Radio Raheem. I take off my Tag Heur and toss it to the side. The essence to letting a day slide is that you don’t need to know what time it is. I’ve also taken my platinum symbol off and locked it in the new high-tech security carrying case I "found" for my titanium laptop (also "found").


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