My V*gina, My Valentine

You went all out:

took me away for the weekend;

dropped wet red petals in blooming trails

across the white ceramic tiles of the hotel bathroom;

grew a fat red strawberry clot and presented it to me

in the blue-white bowl of the restaurant toilet;

made me a perfume that smelled like seaweed drying

on my favourite Cornish beach. Said,

because I know you like the beach when it’s hot

and the flies buzz.

You made me a romantic playlist: I’ve been singing

everything I do, I do it for you

on repeat, for three days.

You painted my nails red, stained the cuticles;

you printed heart shapes into a thick cotton towel.

I turn my attention to someone else, and you can’t cope:

you flood my menstrual cup till I can hear the suction kissing

in and out, and then warm blood seeps into my knickers.

I can’t concentrate.

Sometimes I let it go cold, the blood,

just to show you that I can, but it makes things worse.

You won’t be ignored: will bear down,

force the cup to shift, its pointed end jabbing

your soft walls. You says things like,

love me, love yourself and hurt me, hurt yourself.

When I relent and go to the bathroom,

I peel down layers of wet fabric to find the ragged petals of a dying peony

printed like a Rorschach across my inner thighs.

Now, it’s day four and I can’t do it anymore.

You know it. I remove my cup before I shower,

think of a red wine glass by the sink in the morning.