“sit down at a typewriter and bleed” by Emilie Pine

What if my body could tell a story?
What would it say?

I think it would talk about blood, its mesmerising flow and its ebb.
About ending and renewing.

I think it would talk  about the touch of my fingers and my hands and another's lips.
The feel of skin on skin. Wet and slow. Soft and hard.
The shock of cold, the pleasure of warmth.

I think it would talk about the delight of orgasm 
and the delight of laughter
and the delight of sating hunger.

About tasting sharp and spicy, soothing and creamy.

I think it would talk about looking out and pulling in.

I think it would talk about perfume and stink.
About clean and dirty.
I think it would talk about illness and recovery
about fortitude and growth.
I think it would talk about loss and grief.
About standing solo and holding together.
About longevity and transformation.
About satisfaction. About happiness. About joy.

I think it would sound strong.
I think it would sound loud.
I think it would sound proud.

And I am listening.

And this, this is what it looks like when a woman bleeds onto the page.

from Emilie Pine’s Notes to Self: ‘Notes on Bleeding and Other Crimes’

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