Blood

They don't hear the whispered sanitary pleas Toilet tissue stuffed knickers to catch the bleed They don't see the tampon hidden up our sleeve As we dash across the office paranoid they'll see The stupid names we use to keep it on the down low Like my lady friend, shark week or aunty flo Having the painters in, Bloody mary, crimson flow As if uttering the word period is an absolute no go They don't understand the constant cringe That they might smell the blood radiating Or our skirt might catch in the wind and swing Flashing a glimpse of a string or a wing And the absolute panic when evidence is around When dad asked "is that ribena on your dressing gown?” Times we got out of the bath and plonked ourselves down Leaving little red kisses on the sheets to be found But why are we bothered that they might find it vulgar

To realise each month there’s blood on our vulva

And it's not like it's weird or something rare If it weren't for their mother's blood, they wouldn't be there

And I'm not saying we need to shout from on high

That we have blood draining from between our thighs

But let's not buy into the ridiculous lie

That it's something offensive girls need to hide