I began to bleed
when I was nine and
became afraid that
someone might see,
so I never spoke of it:
ashamed of myself
for becoming a woman
when the world seemed
to despise us so.
I discovered myself
in the echo of mirrors
when I was thirteen,
dissociated but whole
and no longer forbidden,
from feeling my worth,
from touching my body.
I traced my jawline
in the glass and smiled
with chiseled teeth:
pronounced, finally,
and gaping with promise.
I became a connoisseur 
of deep sunsets early
because I saw myself
in the way the day bled.
Give them all to me.
I’ll swallow them whole
as the earth does the day,
my scarlet throat working: 
shades of confidence
betraying the youth that
taught me to be afraid
of what I could be.
I am now thirty-three,
fingers tracking the valleys
of my hips, sorting through
the weeds of my bush,
rising over the hills of
my breasts: blushing
from use rather than
shame. My name is 
now a prayer caught 
on the lips of lovers, 
tongues finding my center,
tasting: still, I bleed.

---

Ashley Sapp (she/her) resides in Columbia, South Carolina, with her dog, Barkley. She earned a Bachelor of Arts degree in English from the University of South Carolina in 2010, and her work has previously appeared in Indie Chick, Variant Lit, Emerge Literary Journal, Common Ground Review, and elsewhere. Ashley has written two poetry collections: Wild Becomes You and Silence Is A Ballad. She can be found on Twitter @ashthesapp and Instagram @ashsappley.

← previous

issue three

next →

header: Felipe Tavares via Pexels