Red Or Blood?

You like my eyes: blue, black, brown,

And the color of smoky rouge and mascara;

You like my red bindi, and the tinge of crimson powder on my forehead;

You like my lips, pink or dry,

When painted with glossy or matte red;

You like my red silk saree,

And how it dances with the wind;

You like the jingling of my red bangles,

And the red nail paint when I caress your cheeks;

You like to adorn me in the red veil,

Sometimes so long that I trip even on a plain road;

Red: the sacred colour of the holy deities!

But, why did you cringe at the red spot in my bed sheet, or my pants?

Why did you stop me at the door, every month

For the impurity of your own 'red'?

Why does the holy and beautiful red,

Become detested and impure,

When it paints my vagina, and not my cheeks?

My vagina bleeds red, like the embroidered veil of the goddess;

But oh! How the definition of 'red' slips

From head to the aberrant whole of my vagina!

But red is blood!

Either on head or my legs,

It is a colour of power!