My uterus is not a biohazard //OR// Why I am going to get birth control wearing a red supersuit flaunting a red period blood smudge.
The blood that pours, trickles, gushes and drips from my uterus is considered a biohazard. You know, the kind that they put in those sterile red plastic containers with the red cutting scythe logo. That one — grim reaper come for my lifeblood.
My uterus births a biohazard every. single. month. (except maybe not now, because remember, I am getting birth control)
My uterus could also grow a baby. Babies are very large biohazards, or rather, psychohazards: potential emotional danger zones for any man who dares perform desire with my body and fears consequences.
That is a heavy load to carry, my friends. It is weary-making to carry biohazard around with you everywhere: to the supermarket, to work, upstairs to bed every night.
I wanted this to be a rant about how men give up on birth control when it has unpleasant side effects… the same ones women suffer through anyways because they have no choice if they want to avoid biohazard babies growing in their bodies.
I don’t actually think babies are biohazards. Or psychohazards, really. I mean, for some people, but I don’t feel that way. One day, I want one. It will be the greatest gift from Love and me to me and Love.
I am just angry. I am angry because I am sad. I am sad because I am tired. I am tired because I just want some-man to read “miracle” out of my stains and smudges, and no-man has been able to do that yet and writing all these blog posts reaffirming reaffirming reaffirming the validity of my body is a lot of work and sometimes I’d rather be writing about something else.