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Month
I looked forward to it,
Waited for it,
Checked every morning,
But when,
On Wednesday,
My first day of High School,
I say my thighs painted,
I wished it wasn't true,
I cried,
I cried for my innocence,
For purity,
For a life,
Where seeing,
My most secret parts bleed,
Was true,
Then the pain set in,
Stabbing,
But the blood isn't a crime,
It's just womanhood,
So,
A year on from my first,
My panst,
Tye dyed pants,
Are lying on the other side of,
The bathroom floor,
I put my head between,
My legs and cry,
As quietly as possible,
So the men I live with,
For whom,
Paper cuts are the most sever pain,
Don't hear me,
And tell me I'm just,
Overriacring,
And that it is natural,
And all I want to say,
To them,
Is how the f*ck can,
You possibly know?
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There is something infinitely healing in the repeated refrains of nature—the assurance that dawn comes after night, and spring after winter. —Rachel Carson