The Politics of Tampon Removal

Casual art space.

Speak softly out there, you can yell your little texta tip off in the cubicle of the freedom fighter.
Name your rapist.
Explore your depression. (There's a number for that)
Leave a little phrase of sunshine, your superhero name or a happy face.

So confined
Our senses anchor to the liberation of perfumed foamy soap

The task at hand? Tug the rediscovered string
Hey! Control that trajectory!!

And there it is.

A dessertspoonful of blood mass.
Prone.
On the floor between your day shoes.
(What do we call that? Placenta? nah. Womb wall? Waste product?)
crimson rose red satiated leech overflow

A 4-D puzzle. A jiggly conundrum.

How to scoop that up with rustly, shiny squares of paper? Sharp folds from the hygiene company to you from a box in the wall?

Look.
I solved it, I flushed it, I wiped it, nobody saw a thing.
In this shiny toilet cubicle.

Our women's sacred space.