Menstrual Poetry

The Uterus Vase

I saw this vase and immediately thought it was kick ass. After visiting the site it’s offered on, Pure Contemporary, I think it’s even more kick ass, especially with how the description is written:

“Although the shape of the female reproductive organ is known by everyone from illustrations in biology or anatomy books, one rarely speaks about it openly. Even more rare are the occasions to celebrate it. However, the statuary beauty of this smooth porcelain-like vase of pure whiteness gives its dignity back to an intrinsic human topic, that nowadays has become the celebrated theme of over-consumed erotic images. The enigmatic notoriety of its form, as for it, reflects the true depth of a subject respectfully treated by its creators.”

It’s awesome, I want it. Thoughts?

Blogging Against Sexual Violence Using Creative Expression

Today is A Day to End Sexual Violence. Courtesy of abyss2hope, today is the second annual Blog Against Sexual Violence Day.

I’ve been thinking for a few days about what I wanted to write about. I cover sexual violence quite a bit here, but I wanted this to be a bit different and have deeper meaning to me, so I finally decided to share a piece of my own creative writing that tells a little but about my childhood and my own past with sexual violence.

This is a short prose piece entitled Stonewalled and was written on May 8, 2005. It was featured in North Eastern Pennsylvania’s Women’s Resource Center’s “An Empty Place at the Table” art gallery.

Stonewalled

Go brush your teeth and I’ll be right up to tuck you in.

And with that statement, you were gone. The door slammed, the car’s ignition hissed, and the tires roared away from our townhouse apartment - home for needy welfare mothers who spend their earnings from their spread your leg careers on “I’m sick of feeling like this, I want to be someone else” hallucinogens and “My veins are pretty empty and could use a lift of spirits” syringes. Where were you this time? Because I’m still in bed peering from the turned-down comforter to see you and smell the musty scent on your breath, on my face, on your clothes. When do you think you’re coming back?

This is because you couldn’t mother a pair of mistakes; the first a little more damned than the second. If the men had the money you would introduce them to your shining star concubine - age’s six to twelve. Sifting into nothing but a corpse; unable to do anything but lay there, engulfed in a wonderland of dead fairies that all look identical. Laying there as if nothing happened; gyrating into outlandish figures - all bleeding from one sacred pore.