Contemplating antinatalism on day two of my period

Throbbing like a distant siren wailing
blood-blurred words onto my panties
like fear and shame, my uterus can go fuck itself today.
My womb is famous for its chasm,
filled only with its own name. Why can’t I expand
my womanhood to mean more than not mother
without shedding rust-black blame? Nobody wants
to hear about this oneness, about this monthly meditation
on staying the same. How much does a woman have to give
to outweigh a mouth around her nipples? What of her
must she exchange? We’re turning the colors of bruises,
being taken out back if you know what I mean.
And I should want to fill this house with more humans, endure
shitting and splitting, maybe even die in the name of sanctified pain?
I’d rather rip my sex organs right out of me,
wave them as a white flag, forget about them,
mistake them for something less lethal — a flower, a purse, a cat.