blood on my hands

we bear children, create life, spawn the next generation-
so it’s fine, then, to bleed out every month. except, what
happens when we refuse? then, with no noble purpose, 
does the blood become abominable? do I suddenly lose
my token for acceptability when I declare I am not satisfied
with menstruating as a child and teenager for the end game of
birthing babies?
we are locked in a perpetual battle with our own bodies, trapped
in an awful, monthly bloodbath where there is no victor, but when
I say I will not be having children-I am never going to have sex-
then I have become the vile thing, committing suicide against
my own gender.
an asexual doesn’t deserve her femininity. she doesn’t aim
for motherhood in a world where our worth as women is
defined by the children we bring into existence. that two-
kids-and-a-dog version of the American Dream, the think-
of-your-mother card to pull.
put the blood on my hands. 
remind me it’s my fault, I’m
killing the traditional family, 
killing the values and maternal
instinct I’m supposed to embody.
just put the blame on me.