My blood is red.
Yes, it splatters, splashes and stains.
Yes it aches when it leaks.
Yes, it hurts when it bleeds.

My blood is red.
Like yours when you cut yourself.
Like ours when we fall.
So why is my blood “that”
While your blood still keeps a name?

My blood is red.
My voice is loud.
My opinions, are louder.
So, no, when my volume is high,
And my dissent higher
It is not “that time of the month.”

Best way to talk to your daughters about periods

My blood is red.
And I have ovaries.
And a body cycle that is meant to bleed.
So when I say I have pain,
I mean it.
No, don’t call it “a girl thing.”

My blood is red.
So don’t give me my sanitary napkins in a black bag,
That hides their existence from the world.
Much like you hide me,
And my pain.

My blood is red.
My blood is real.
It isn’t yours to hide.
It isn’t yours to name.

My body is real.
My blood is red.

Saumya-BaijalPoet: Saumya Baijal

Saumya is a writer in both English and Hindi. Her stories, poems and articles have been published on Jankipul.com, India Cultural Forum, Satyagraha.Scroll.com, feminism in India, The Silhouette Magazine, among several others. Her writings reflect her personal & political thought processes, questions existing ideas of set definitions. 

Editor: Divya Rosaline

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