Liquid velvet runs through our veins, transporting oxygen keeping us alive. Iron-smelling, sticky. Red like a ruby.

That same liquid velvet runs through our legs, from inside a woman’s core, every single month.

At the dawn of Time, the early human realized pretty quickly that the red thing that came out of their bodies brought the beginning and the end of things. Then, they also discovered a creature among them, with milk to feed the young, the one with darkness to her soul. The one who can feel the earth ponding; she could bleed for days on end–but wouldn’t die.

“Beware of the creature that bleeds every month for a week and never parishes.” goes the saying, revealing how much of misogyny has its roots in fear of things we cannot explain. All kinds of hate do.

The fear of what we project into the unknown gets us angry and cruel, making them want to conquer and dominate “the monster.” That one that bleeds for days on end and won’t die.

Women have been a mystery since the creation of humankind; Literature, Legends, and Myths talk about them in the same fashion. Carrie, Lilith, Carmilla are all victims of their cultures. Feared because of that very sticky liquid velvet present during a child’s birth and other wounds.

Always evil, consistently wrong, permanently dangerous. Must be leashed, must be controlled. It must be tamed!

Little by little, our power has been taken from us: our sexuality, childbirth, intuition. We now control natality by tricking our bodies. Soon, our cycle wasn’t aligned with the moon anymore.

Soon, we lost the sense of what it means to be a woman. Biologically, yes, but first and foremost, we lost the female soul.

The Future is here, and we still fight for the right to own our bodies, speak our minds, and have our needs met, when we should be running wild.

Running! Into the woods and towards the drums that beat in the rhythm of our caged hearts.

Running! Into the darkness of nature to find the piece we lost when we were carried out.

Running– with the wolves, barefooted and free, cutting our skin on the branches life puts ahead, smashing them with our will, and letting in pain. Opening! Staining the floor with liquid red velvet.

For: it all comes down to blood.

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