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Blood smells a bit like fish and familiarity

In a way men will never know.

Pain crawls up and shackles her in silence

For five days she is 

A seasonal river that flows to let go.

Crimson looks like death; and intense life

In a way no man will ever know.

Only she who was born

To live many lives in one

The first flood, the falls,

The fruition, the flow, the fadeout...

To her,

Blood smells heady

Like the fragrance of yesterlife,

At its poignant best

when it is time to let go.