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Red Tide

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Author's Notes

"About my own experiences with period-related body dysmorphia."

Sometimes before the red tide
My body is no longer mine

When I stare down
At those two fat burlap sacks



Curves like melted candle wax
Dried on the floor, a shapeless mass



I wonder if I’m just paying rent

Not recognizing my naked form



Now a tarp stretched tight
Filled with air



Bloated and burning

Almost bursting

Breasts that don’t feel like breasts

A belly that bubbles grotesque

A swathe of distended skin

Swollen with a short fuse switch

The only solace in the wait
For the pain of my menses

Cramped on the floor
Lying in the pungent puddle of my sex



When the moon shines large and bright
And the tide rises high
It laps against my insides

Flushing out that uncanny feeling
That my body isn’t mine anymore

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