by Yovana Milosevic

i wake up to wetness
with a howl in my low
belly sinking its teeth in tissue,
the monthly pallor stealing
pink, body red rage for not
reproducing—it says, Bleed

—you have killed this chance, too,
now suffer and never speak a dirty word
about your leaking—
the clot of it all swirls dark red spiral spat

of melted blue fucking, of kinky, red wings,
of disgusting, smothered pleasure like
clawed pads of fingers
on the softness of wedding day.

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