PCOD

my body is a bleeding boat

there’s firecrackers and soft stones bursting out of my womb and onto the footpath;

the cracking noise was my ribs,

in case you were wondering.

my body is a bleeding boat

i am not allowed to condemn my conveniences even if they sprout from a place of privilege,

privilege will be snatched from my bare hands dare I take a stand for my sisters,

mister, there’s only so much I will endure.

my body is a bleeding boat

on an ocean of white light, the stains i leave behind mean nothing to you,

the stains i leave behind only make you scowl with disgust,

the stains i leave behind only remind you of injuries, scars, violence, wars.

my body is a bleeding boat

i am fighting my own limbs, my own skin, my own

i am fighting to produce blood, reproduce your blood, bruise under your boiled blood

my fingers can’t help but tremble from all the pulsating, raging blood,

this is not your blood, not pure blood,

at least i bleed in silence, unlike your violent hands waiting to procure blood.

my body is a bleeding boat

it’s cutting out the oxygen supply, it’s contracting in itself,

it’s a harmonized prayer, mistaken to be a witch’s spell,

it’s being hunted, torn apart, under-diagnosed

it’s “seeking attention” on a phenomena so trivial,

your capitalism can’t benefit from it

it’s bleeding blood that can’t be marketed like blood

because red makes your pious bull stomp its feet, makes its angry nostrils flare on female recognition

but blue is the blood of your consumers and blue is the blood of royalty.

my body is a bleeding boat,

my body is shrinking, expanding, rusting, suffering,

my body is claustrophobic in itself,

my body is a bleeding boat and i am assessing it for damage control.

By Vaishnavi Sharma