Ramblings from a woman who can't stop menstruating

    Sometimes I feel like feminism is a joke. I hear the #metoo movement and I feel the burden, the weight of every woman's suffering being unheard or undermined. In a lot of ways, women bring it on themselves.

    For as long as history has been recorded, men have ruled the world. Very few societies have been recorded as egalitarian(aside from slavery of course). The ancient Celts fought equally on the battlefield; men, women and even children fought side by side. Vikings, both male and female; had equal say in what happened in their communities. Not to mention, rape and attempted rape were punishable by death! Personally,  I think a more suitable punishment would be castration and having your balls removed from the sack. Unfortunately, you can't get everything you want!

    I hope that one-day things will change, but women don't have each others backs the way men do. In most societies, men set roles for everyone to follow because they're predominantly in power. For women, that role is a cook, a clean and a caregiver. Once that role is fulfilled, it is believed that there is no room for anything else; not even her own wants and needs. Being pretty is clearly an advantage in snagging a suitable husband. I used to weigh 300 pounds, so I'm aware of the clear distinction in which women are treated according to how they look. Most women are too "stuck in their role" to say anything.

    I'll admit my responsibility by remaining silent. I was at a party once and a guy brushed my waist with his hand, and all I did was walk away; feeling like I could've done more. Several times I have walked down the street, harassed by males to frightened to leave their cars. Of course, their's nothing I could do about that! However, there are the ones with the balls to try and talk to me and ask for my number. I want to be rude, but fear makes me smile and politely say no thanks; making me appear as if I lack authenticity.

    The point is, women, take it out on each other. We make each other apologize for someone else's actions. We are told to take responsibility by covering up, shutting up and walking on eggshells--or else, we're asking for it. We don't take each other seriously any more than men do. So, we remain silent and simply wait to bleed.

    Is there a happy ending without semen everywhere?

 

My Own Worst Enemy

I've got words racing and pushing their way to my tongue on a razor's edge.
They bleed and pour out uncontrollably.
They want to be free like birds in the summer green.
They lay their bodies in the fresh cut grass as they bask in the suns misery.

I've got emotions slithering through my body and soul. It eats at me in the form of a parasite;
like a leech draining me dry, or an amoeba eating its way through my already corroded brain.
They are hungry and ravenous, and what's even more frightening is they can't get enough.

I've got loneliness weighing me down. It sleeps and dreams, then wakes up looking for a companion. I am that companion.
So it's true when they say misery loves company!
I'm always there for you loneliness because you are just as alone as I am.
Yet you are so selfish, you refuse to be there for me.

I've got anger seizing me.
My mother, my sister, my friend.
You cage me and feed me insanity.
You love me like abusive mothers love their daughters; you beat me down and then you cradle me against your bosom, nurturing me with rage.

Why do I love you? Why do I need you?

Philosophy of a Senseless Dreamer

Deviant Moon Tarot by Patrick Valenza

I've become numb to the representation of iterations that were once etched into my heart and soul. 

The words upon words have become meaningless because I worship myself 

and loathe everyone else.

Yet

I struggle with the thought that those words upon words still sting.

And the thought of you rebuking my being still burns me with insecurity.

I end your world with rejection 

because if forgiveness is love

then it is everything I am not.

No one is superior to anyone

it is an existential joke.

Some are cursed with arrogance and some are blessed with apathy.

Unfortunately

I am a dreamer.

I dream of peace and compromise

yet everyone is too busy sizing each other up

or trying to outdo one another.

That is why I'm deluded.

But if I'm deluded

so is everyone else!

Lace, Pastels, and Botched Benevolence

    I remember the first time I heard the term abortion. I was 12 or 13 years old and I was spending time in a psychiatric facility. There was a 6-year-old girl who was raped by her dad or brother(I can't remember exactly) and was shocked to hear about this girl being pregnant! How can a 6-year-old be pregnant? Well, I got my period when I was 9 so instantly, I had answered my own question. However, the shock of knowing a child that young was even capable of getting pregnant; what a cruel and cumbersome act of perversion nature has thrust upon this repulsively young lady.

    The children's ward in psychiatric hospitals is often dumping grounds for parents who either don't want or don't know how to deal with their children. Apparently, her mother blamed her and sent her to the facility. I was listening to a conversation her and an older patient in her teens(who acted like her mother) were having. The baby woman said and I quote, "They gave me an abortion." As a remarkably sheltered preteen, I had no established knowledge to define the term.

    Now as an adult, I hear intense debates and discussions regularly. I see people passionately protest with gnarly photos of babies dismembered and bloodied. The only thing that comes to mind is, this is what we do to each other. We tear each other down and rip each other apart, until theirs nothing left but brokenness; unleashing the tribal primitive beast within. Then, we wrap up the ugliness in delicate lace. We paint reality with pretty pastels so that we don't have to face our botched benevolence.

    As human beings, we need each other. We all want to be understood; to feel like we matter. Unfortunately, humans beings are naturally self-serving. Our emotions compel us to justify the way we hurt others as acts of righteousness. Serving only our morals and therefore ourselves, because the one thing that people really care about the most is pretending to care.

Knowledge is power!
Want to know more about abortions and how they work? Click here!
Risks and side effects of abortion
Do abortions hurt? Find out here!

Hot Crux Seclusion

I celebrate my madness with uneasy conviction

Everything I am is built on my affliction

I'm detached

Disconnected

I'm bored with my surroundings so I crawl in 

to your bed of homegrown tears and fuck solitude

Then I fall asleep with a paper and pen

dreaming of worlds where I don't exist

I am tormented

Demented

I'm consumed by flames

Watch me burn

Watch me decay

Watch me as I wither away

Burned by your incandescence...

Pistol Whipped Asphyxiation

                                                                             

The smoking gun

Art by: Jeffrey Richter

http://industrialhumanity.blogspot.com/

    Thousands of children grow up in foster care each year. Most of those children are never adopted. In fact, most of those kids age out of the system; forever lost in a filing cabinet or a digital wasteland of empty hopes and dreams.

    Unfortunately, I am one of those statistics. Regina Louise and Dave Pelzer were two authors that brought me solace growing up. I don't know my real name, so I call myself Regina Pelzer. My earliest memory in the system is my first family. They were a nice couple with a nice house and a nice yard; seemingly cookie cutter. It was exactly what one might suspect, too good to be true. I was only 4 years old when I felt the first sweltering blow of a belt across my back. All because I spilled a glass of milk in fancy china.

    Now, I'm a 32-year-old coke and heroin addict; I work in a sleazy strip club where you can get a blow job in the VIP room for the right price. The hope that I had in my early youth had been buried; numbed by drugs and beads of sweat that splattered from the bodies of strange men. I was innocent then; with innocence, there is naivete with naivete, theirs only ignorance behind childish eyes. At this point in my life, I feel like I should've been aborted.

    I'm bitter, sad, and aging; my green eyes are sunken and hollow and my skin is dry and cracked. My red hair has no grey yet, but it's dull and lifeless. The rest of me appears rail thin and sickly. A few good years of drug abuse has devastated my once desirable appearance.

    I'm about to be 33, and I look and feel middle aged. I've decided that I'm ready to cleanse the planet of my wretched existence, but I'm not going out alone. If I'm going to clean up the world, I'm going to take out as many as possible.

    I met up with my drug dealer who sold ammo as well. I had no money, but as a woman whose sole purpose contributed nothing more than self-preservation, I had more to offer him and seven other men. 

    I pack an automatic weapon, a pistol; and a gorgeously sharp knife with brass knuckles for the handle. As I admired the Barretta 93R, one man who sat in a chair lacing up his shoes asks,

    "So, what do you need all these guns for anyway?"

    "Spring cleaning," I reply.

    Without hesitance, I unload a simultaneous round of bullets into every single one of them. I grab the car keys off my dealer's corpse, put the Barretta in the medium-sized duffel bag I brought with me, and quickly headed out the back door. I drove to the foster group home that I grew up in. It was late, so the building was dark and empty; all except for the receptionist. She's an older lady with brown hair and gray roots.

    "May I help you?" She asks skeptically due to my withered appearance.

     I made no reply, I took the knife hiding behind my back and swiftly slit her throat. I ripped her blood splattered badge off her blouse so I could get through the highly secure building. I wiped the card on my jeans and swiped it. The doors to the day room opened; it is just as I remembered; crowded and smelly. Kids slept on the floor, couches, and chairs; very few were lucky enough to get a bed. Everything stunk of discarded offspring.

    From my right, I notice an older black nurse approach me from the nurse's station.

    "Ma'am, what do you think you're doing?" She asks unequivocally.

    I noticed children stirring awake amongst shamefully self-made floor pallets. I hastily whip out the automatic weapon I used to kill my dealer and his indigent crew. The duffel bag drops to the ground; as if everything were in slow motion, bullets go flying killing the nurse and several sleeping kids near her. Blood splatters and pools begin to form then suddenly, I'm bombed by awareness. Children scream and cry and I know theirs no turning back.

    I wasted no time and I began taking out as many as possible. Children ran into their rooms as I followed them. I stopped at room 23B, a girl sat calmly in her bed. I looked at her and she looked at me; I felt like I knew her. 

    Ten years ago I had a daughter that I gave up to the system, ignorantly thinking she would be ok. I walk into her room, close the door, and sit down next to her. She did not flinch or turn away.

    "Are you going to kill me?" She wonders innocently.

    I lovingly brush some of her hair behind her ear and warmly reply, "Yes."

    "Is it going to hurt? I'm tired of everything hurting." She says.

    My baby girl is only ten, and she's already contemplating suicide. This time, I had to do right by her.

    "Baby, I'm going to offer you something that no one else was ever willing to give you; freedom from pain."

    She leans into me and I kiss her on the head as I wrap my arms around her. I sing to her as I pull out the .44 magnum. I put the gun to her face and quickly pull the trigger, blowing her skull off. I nuzzle closely into her neck, feeling content and at peace. My face wrinkles into a smile of tranquility as I put the gun under my chin.  Right as the cops bust in the door to my daughter's room, I pull the trigger. For only a fraction of a second, the lights flickered. I was then cast into oblivion and the world around me went black.

                                                   THE END

Rupture

She was ticking

but only time could tell.

She shattered and suffered in silence

as she walked her way to the abyss.

"I can not feel this, please don't ask me why."

She said.

As I watch her break and decay behind stone walls

I am just as callous.

"Will you ever forgive me?"

She wonders in the midst of all her misery.

I touched her hand as if I could give her the sensation of hope.

Time knows she's never had that before.

She cries

and runs behind the front door.

Several years later

she comes back from behind the front door

writing in her self-rule.

"You came back."

I noticed.

She was wounded by teeth and claw marks.

"The world ate me alive."

She said.

The only thing left to do

was to slit her throat and say

"I forgive you."

Tanayus Saengpradit - Thailand