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.