Poetry by E M *Guest Blog*

'PMS: Part 1'

Hunger. Emptiness. Holes.

It may be that I shall further reduce myself,
spit out a body.
The omnipotent female core of me is alert, aware:
she will not let me sleep, rather eat, eat.
Ravenousness multiplies fat cells; hunger softens the body:
the cries of fleshy hips smothered by dark shapeless clothes,
the swollen breasts with their aching teats constricted.
I am contained. I stand prone, chained at the stake,
looking out from these eyeholes, chewing and swallowing
instinctually like a calf-heavy cow.
Defenceless against nature.

The vagina is the killer.
A penis is something but a vagina is

nothingness,

an absence

a space

Holes and hunger!

Food, a penis, a baby:
I need to fill my holes
somehow.
I cannot think until it is over;
this obsession is blinding my mind.

Let my blood flow. Let me give birth to myself. Let me return.



'PMS: Part 2'

PMS hits me.
I'm unaware and unprepared
every time.

(I forget, I change.)

Cravings without hunger;
exhaustion without tiredness;
tears without sadness.

I do not graze, I gorge.
I have no energy.
I cry.

Yes, I am utterly enslaved by my body.
It will not let me go.
I am trapped until my blood runs out.

'PMS ends'

I cannot control the floodgates.
Suddenly, I am bleeding.
I am a leaky vessel.
My blood is uncontained.
I flow in pain.
It is my time, but I did not choose it.

E M - UK