Blood Blue

I'm not bothered by the sight of blood. Emptied from my cup it hits white porcelain and is black except in afterimage. It fades like a stain a rose would make. What bothers me is that I should, according to many, be bothered by it. Why? I'm certain my mouth-- the things that go on there!-- is by their own definition of disgusting, more so. No one blinks as I absently chew a finger, buffer it with a wipe on my shirt and then hand them what they asked for. The taboo of blood and vaginas in larger; it's more. The very end and beginning of life is tied up in it, and somewhere along the way, someone influential confused awe for shame. My mother sat me down once, and talked to me about blood, so I never thought my fertility would be blue. This is a mistake of many young girls; a marker-- one of them-- of a sterile culture. Maybe if I bleed on it though, it will spring to life.