Photograph credit: Jake Hills at and

For I’m the moon. Flawed, yet irresistible. The most luminous at the end of my period. Birthing right after. And I’m the high tide. Dancing with the moon, myself. Churning great oceans in my curves.

For I’m the fruit. From sprout to nectar-dripping. Season after season.

For I’m the young monsoon. Purging dusts, old and stale. Washing up, every visit.

For I’m the wind. Screaming and howling gusty thrusts. Tumbling all that dare obstruct me. And I’m the breeze. Mild, hardly noticed. Absorbing and disappearing in your skin. Like light, lavender body lotion.

For I’m the woman. Shedding and renewing, every cycle. Starting afresh. Possessing the spell to bring change.

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