I reclaimed red

I reclaimed red. I reclaimed it while I was still bleeding, hobbled my way into town and bought the beautiful impractical expensive shiny red shoes. I needed to do it. I needed to give a massive 'fuck you' to the slick as celluloid, memory movie of blood pouring out of me, splattering the white porcelain of the toilet bowl with every possible shade of my favourite colour. Pink translucent streaks, scarlet splashes, glossy thick slicks such a dark burgundy they appeared black. My body transformed, entirely out of my control, gushing out the contents of my womb, expelling my dreams without asking. If there was a baby-shaped blob of blood in there I didn't see it. Thank God, thank God, one thing less to try and unremember. My husband brought me tea and biscuits as I bled myself inside out in our tiny tired bathroom. It was all he could do and I sat there all night, an endless gush of hopes dashed, splashed on white, red, red, red.