7 Days (Burgundy)
The part of night he chooses to appear in is faithfully hidden. While becoming a woman, he sets me upright, makes me unlike a fearful youth whose been quietly touched by somebody's hand; adjacent to theft, a freshly cut wife. Her lost bouquet, giggling silly off wine from its first, wedding, night. Mama never got the chance to brush my hair back and explain, tears filling her eyes, that virginity is something only God can take. Likewise, I say to my mind's reflection, neath' the flickering lamp of a brilliant smile, "Virginity is something only God can give, and if lucky enough to be chosen to know him, gift again."
My blood is warm and burgundy when it stains the comforter. Throughout the sacred halls of my body, it feels as if my predecessors have loosed themselves at the same, blessed, time. Divine, the way it properly hurts my temples. I don't complain. Some others do. Some guide it in by making room. I wash my sheets without cursing them. Release the battle of cleanliness to its rightful owner. Hollowing the home, I might hum the soul's prophetic tune or eat a good meal. Might journal the beginnings. Might cry a little bit at the alternative end. One certainty, I'll make amends. I'll grow in wisdom.
When the masculine voice suggests to me that I rest myself, if I am not yet ready, I'll continue to shed. I silently know this. I can do something else but once I feel grateful, I will listen to him and the world will become more kind a place. One where I am able to shamelessly thank my holy mama because she did not take away from me my prayers for daddy or like-safe arms. Thoughtfully, I pour them out, to free myself. One-hundred-sixty-something hours, I bleed from the well without succumbing to sudden death. Across seven, burgundy, days of sheer creation, My womanhood is not a wound and I am not a broken soldier. Existing then and yet, again, from inside out.