Bottled Up Thoughts

I bleed in red, And so, the women you worship once did. Many thanks to the commercials fond of color swapping red for blue, or for water white, or just something new: Like they dislike the red I bleed. But for a thirteen-year-old he and she might just believe it all to be true. Ashamed of that which is real, she is made to hide it - Within dense layers of coal-black plastic. The world has left me drained, relating my impatience to hormonal shifts; Loud voices teaching me to keep it a secret, and that it was all dirty. Like a sunflower,  I will bloom on the gift of Motherhood; this red leaves behind. Like a sunflower,  I will bloom  amidst these closed minds all around; Affirming in bold: RED IS NOT THE COLOUR OF A SIN. I bleed in red, And so, the women you worship once did. Period.                                                                           - J.

Sorrow has never been a home's own. While the world's busy accusing it of its crimes: deaths and despair. On one dreary day, it would certainly walk into your open doors with no knocks. Then, Let it not slide in through the tiny cracks, then break your walls; slowly first and all at once. While you permit it to pass in freely give place to sit, with ease. Ask it who it is or how was its day, And how long it wants to stay. Like the gold polished medals  put in the display, duely embrace its presence. They're both pointers of your patience, unfolding tales of how you've survived strong till the very end of the race. Seal it not behind the lockers of your anxieties, Let it out in the open spaces, Let it free. Long walks, or bed time talks with your gooey guest, are okay. Never to be forgotten: Time lapses, and sooner than you think Sorrow would have left your home; Left you. A guest was all it has ever been, was never meant to stay. Over and over again, Sorrow shifts shelt