blood and acrylic

i have always been fascinated by menstrual blood. so intensely magnetic i find it. when i still it in my palms, it sucks me into myself.

when i was eighteen, the women i drew always menstruated. There was a pool of brick red beside them. I don't know if it is to decode as shame. I cannot, no matter how much i try, think of menstrual blood as waste or something to be sanitised. It is beautiful and so feverishly intriguing. I can watch it do the slow dance under water, all by itself. or slithe on my palms surprising me by its changing character. sometimes a surrendering liquid, next moment the same pool defined and linked.

On days when I come out rich beetroot, i want to keep it. in my homoeopathy pill bottles. to share it with someone.To watch the magic as i let it rest on my palm. And when i don't bleed anymore, i will mourn. That when i sit under the shower, there is no red whose flames lick up with the flowing water.