My body keeps churning out blood clots, plopping out like buttery slugs every hour. Christ bled too, through a slit—not between his legs, but in his side from a Roman spear. Maybe that’s why His blood is holy and mine is unclean. He poured it into a cup, passed it around, said, “This is my blood,” and men drank it without flinching. That ritual continues every day, all around the world—even at the Pope’s funeral. If it were my blood, the disciples would gag. And yet, each month, I feel a strange kinship with Jesus. I wonder, if He had been the Daughter of God instead, would churches pass around menstrual cups of wine? Maybe we’d recognize a different kind of holiness. I feel connected to Him in those moments. The only difference is—He only bled once.
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