How to Bleed

by JSKean

How To Bleed

 

When my mother taught me about womanhood,

when she prepared me for becoming a woman,

She only told me of the blood, the bleeding.

 

The ways that I would suffer quietly

Slicing my tongue to ribbons with razor blade teeth.

I’d grow accustomed to the taste of metal in my mouth.

I’d learn to give before they could take.

 

And they would

take,

claw,

scratch,

tear

and cut.

 

Leave me wasted

like paper dolls in landfills.

Expect me to wipe the spatter from the walls,

Pluck teeth from carpet and carry them out with the waste,

Then smile while cooking dinner.

 

You’ll learn. You will pretend you love it.

You will paste lace over bruises.

On your worst days you will tear yourself open with broken

mirrors and scream out to gods who only hear the cries of men.

You will find that there is not a single part of yourself you

wouldn’t amputate. Not a piece of your flesh precious enough to keep.

 

You will find yourself praying to starfish.

On your best days you will convince yourself you chose this,

believe that you’ve ever had a choice. It is easier that way.

My mother readied me for a lifetime of torn dresses and skinned knees.

It’s not safe to be born a girl, to grow up pretty in the faces of men,

A rose in a valley of thorns, they will make you bleed, she said.

 

All you can do is sew yourself up again.

There are things in life worse than bleeding, I am sure.

We are butterflies living in invisible cages, just

molecules in constellations. I didn’t understand it then.

 

My mother taught me everything she knew

about becoming a woman. All she knew was

how to bleed.