Bloodlust

We saw two motorcycles
pop wheelies down the street today.
You whooped, hollered—bad.
I just watched, thinking how men chase
the thrill of brushing up against blood—
boxing, war, bullfights, hunting—
how they, Hemingway-drunk, ache for closeness
to what women know too well.

Fiddling with a pocketknife,
they romanticize the fall:
dying in snow like white sheets,
sprawled in a beautiful pool—
their own blood.
Men’s heroic is
women’s Tuesday—
every month, for decades.
You know The Red Badge of Courage
was about my twat.

In psych class, I heard—
the teacher speak of penis envy—
and wondered, isn’t this urge
to stab, to strike, to bleed,
to watch another war movie,
just menses envy,
rebranded?

Men seduced by crimson tides,
swaggering with pride.
God, I love when they think we’re the ones afraid—
of blood? A needle? A wound?
Darlin’, most nurses are women
with hands deep in blood daily.

Yes, sweetie, we were born
bathed in blood,
and bathe in it still—
again and again,
unadorned.

I bled just last week.

So sure—
whoop, holler, flirt with the blade, babe,
with danger, death, and blood.
It’s cute. No, really.

I won’t join.
I get enough bloodlust.

You know I straddle life and death
every month.
Last month, this month too.

Even in between—spotting—
like a bro at the gym.

I’ve broken that cotton pony.

But hey—
I can share.
I'll bleed with you, babe.