When I was twelve I asked my mom if there was ever going to be a girl president.
She said "if you were the president, wouldn't you start a war every time you got your period?" As if all the wars weren't started by men. I said I didn't think so and she laughs in that way that says she has lived so much more life than me and one day I'd understand. One day I would settle into my body and my place and feel the same way as her.
I wonder what rages inside of her that she feels like she can only release once a month, under the light of the full moon. The need for bloodshed. Where does she keep all that war?
I did settle into my body enough to learn that a woman's anger is the kind that diffuses over the skin, the kind that covers you and you must learn to shed it in the most demure way, wrapping it in paper and hiding it under tissues, disposing of it at night.
