Menses
Blood falls on the clean, white floor.
The doctors say this is normal.
The doctors say we are dramatic.
It is a monthly occurrence, nothing new.
Spilling our blood, a monthly occurrence, nothing new.
It is life, power, the sign of a woman.
It is death, weakness, the existence of a woman.
A woman left at home with piles of clothes.
A woman left in the street in puddles of blood,
Nothing more than a passing comment in the news.
Nothing more than a passing figure at heaven’s gate.
Just as common as a butterfly in the spring.
Just as common as a fly over rotten meat.
Blood smeared on the filthy, gray cement.
Author Statement: Michaela explores the experience of femininity as a second-generation immigrant who grew up in Tijuana. Her words explore the minimization of women, fear of puberty, and femicide.