Her name is Scarlet and she is a lunar maiden of sorts. She is the priestess of the temple that is nestled between her curvy hips. She is the guardian of her sacred den, the protector of the cradle of life, the only captain of her vessel. She is the lady Atlas that carries the ocean where children swim breathless.
She is the she-wolf as she howls at her blood moon and empties her lungs into the night, embracing her mysterious sensuality. She teases and spoils the mystical goddess within her at that time of the month with a breath of relief and a flirty wink to herself in the mirror. The mood swings and the anger tantrums and the unleashed beast that devours her and everyone around her prior can finally come to its routine halt because peace comes once more to restart a period that gets her off another emotional rollercoaster ride unscathed.
Once that monthly ritual is soaked in ceremony, a smile returns to her face, to her womb, to her mind, to her body, to her heart. Emotions are settled, categorized and under control. It is a time when a glow returns to her cells. Her skin smoothens and her hair untangles. Her limbs glide and float. Her bosoms swell with an irresistible invitation to nurse all the sadness in the world.
She is not filthy. She is not unholy as holy men claim her to be. She is privileged and empowered by the very fluid that waters her garden. She is what she is meant to be, a woman in full glory; respected, adored, handled with care. She is sexy because she bleeds; she bleeds because she is sexy. She is the child in her playground of sensitivity and Greek muses feather her with inspiration and renewed awe. The cramps she feels are the sacred pulses of Mother Earth preparing her to provide the greatest gift: life.
She is a woman, just like me, a woman that is fueled by the blood moon and not run down by it, not scared of it, not bored of it, not ashamed of it.