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Red Alert: The Pain.

I write of the pain—the monthly subscription I never asked for but am somehow grateful for.

My stomach feels hollowed out, as if each revolution of the orb inside empties my body of its softness. A knife scrapes the walls and sometimes stabs into me. That hurts. But the repeated stabbing has a rhythm; I can concentrate in class, pretend it's red noise.

The unsynchronized stabs halt my breath. I squirm in discomfort, trying to concentrate as it drives into my ribs, stabbing at "where my honor lays."

A little higher.

Sometimes it decorates my insides with polka dots, tiny slices. I write to avoid writhing in pain. It doesn’t hurt much, I know. I don't need to lessen this pain for others to digest. I know it's not supposed to be normal.

I assume this pain is normal because I know no different. It’s only debilitating on certain days. Today is fine.

It’s all-consuming at times, and I’m not a fan of those moments. I understand the process, but I wish it were less dramatic. Slicing away flesh and blood has always been dramatic.

It signifies the loss of life. That amount of red—it kind of does, it kind of doesn’t.

War spills blood. For peace, they say.

I don’t feel at peace. If there’s a war raging in my body, it’s futile.

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