To the people who found my underwear I left at the laundry mat:
Gosh, I m sorry you had to find them like that, im really apologize I left them there like that, and you had to see them abandoned in a heap like that!
You see, I had an emergency!
its just that I had to run, you know a woman’s work is never done! I started cramping and bleeding, I was screaming in sudden bleeding pain, like hemhorraging, gushing and bleeding, me right out of those waiting room seats. please forgive the mess I left.
And my forgotten underwear, that you returned to the dead underwear office, thank you for handling that and I need to explain something. This may sound awkward,
You see, the brown stained spots in my underpants that you found, wasn’t feces, you saw, no! the marks were me, parts of me, a visual translation of the ovaries, a glimpse of ‘in the beginning,’ photographs of the menses and DNA strains and stained symbols of me, the tree of life, alive with blood and strife, no, not a sheath for a knife, but the site of your birth and mine, these living drops are the spots that become divine life! So im Sprayed like a tagger, nature’s graffiti breathing and throbbing, making shapes in my underwear line like hearts and mountains of possibilities of being- the dice of life, right to lifers- we paid the pied piper, no not a candystriper, dear underwear sniper, these are my sacred diapers of protection from a sanitary explosion, an implosion of eggs running down my legs in clumps of blood. Seeds of spawn for the offspring, underpanty bling bling! My underwear that you find are like battle scars- purple hearts in the game of life and strife for sacrifice of a baby a new earth soul, your birthdays and mine. My underwear are a sign, a momentary breath of oily liquid in time, a reminder to shine upon our women with kind words and deeds, actions and creeds. She bleeds for us. So, Please leave my underwear there, not as a rag, not trash but as a flag, the real sacred national flag to wave and be proud, a tag to symbolize the pain, the blood, the sacrifice, not dead on a cross but living every day of her life.