They told me to hide it.

To tuck the pads in my sleeve.

To cross my legs

and smile through the pain.

But my blood is not shame.

It is scripture.

Every month,

my body writes its own gospel—

in red,

in rhythm,

in power.

I bleed and do not die.

I leak and do not apologize.

I mark calendars,

sheets,

underwear—

and still rise clean