Woman.

My face is red with blisters, burnt and sore, but I cover it up with mud and coloured Khol, cheese and smile, must take a picture

The skin on my fingers are peeling off, but still I type, a day job, a mere prisoner, no other choice, must feed the minions

My eyes are bulged, white screen and fluorescent lights, up in the dead of the night, a new cloud opportunity, must see the future

My nipples are sore, I bleed in doses, there’s a fang toothed monster chewing on my insides, I left some red colour, on the train seat from sheffield, must be my period

Must make a home, for soon I’ll expire, fill my womb and pass on my trauma, must stretch for a head, must push and scream, must enter a union

Must manage my woes, and put on a smile, manage my rolls and put on a dress, manage my sores and put on a face, manage my cramps and turn up to work, must be a woman