Period

A woman's curse
Each month it comes
And fills our bodies with pain.
We stop the flow
With dry, bleached sticks
Of compressed fibres
That shock and ache.
Or otherwise
We use little towels
Made of plastic, cotton wool and gel
That chafe and pollute
Our choking world.
Other options exist
Silicone cups that collect
The lining from our wombs
But still they leak
And stain our clothes
And add again
To our womanly woes.
Cloth sanitary pads
I hear you cry
That has to be the way
Collect the blood
Wash it out
And then you smell all day.
Oh how I wish
That men could know
The draining, aching pain
That every month
A woman feels
Get over it, they say.