Somehow I ended up seeing that exhibition Hic Est Sanguis Meus. This is my blood. And I’m not sure if I like it, or if it’s simply just scary crap.

W. said we’d be going to that exhibition. It’s political, she said. Emma advertised it, she went on. About that girl, who was on her period when she was lying on her bed. People could see she was bleeding, that’s why Instagram removed the pic. You shouldn’t show off your blood, shouldn’t let people see you’re a person. Hide the fact that you’re a girl. A girl on her period.

So we went to see it. And it was all about blood. Dirty blood, blood in a room that was scary, scary like a butcher’s warehouse. Like Carrie, only in real life. Is that what is needed for people to come to terms with women’s periods? Or an invitation to enhance your fellow buddies’ splatter experience?



A large penis, the size of a dog, soaked all over in red paint. I’m glad it was paint. There was real blood next door, tapped to a bed of roses, buried in a coffin-like suitcase. A nail that pinned the blood to the feather bed. I’m guessing it was dead blood, blood that had died months ago, if not years. Or maybe it was fresh? Blood spilled just the other day? New dead blood? On the little sign next to the exhibit it said it came right from inside a human person, and now there it is, for everyone to see. For everyone to call it art.

But it’s blood. Brown and muddy. Moody moldy blood. The entire room, and the room next door, there is blood all over, and a torso and on that torso, which is not a real torso but rather just the mons, there’s a pig’s heart, lying right on that girl’s womb. It scares me. Is that my blood, is that my bleeding? I am scared. Holy shit! Emma, that’s not what I expected. Didn’t you say you wanted to get the period out of the closet? Break to taboo, take the girl with that spot on her bed back to Instagram. But here we are. Soldiers, a woman, two, more. Holding a gun, digging deep, spreading the drops and the pomegranate all across her bellies. Yes, I agree. It is strong: showing the blood in combination with the woman fighter, the female heroine that is not afraid to not shy away from bleeding. This is a war we’re in. We’re fighting, every month, anew, we’re losing, they’re winning, and blood everywhere. Beneath the sheets, the naked bodies. Don’t put on clothes, don’t. It is a war zone. It is scary as hell. And I feel I’m soaked into those images. They’re trying to get hold of me, grabbing me. I’m right inside, in the middle of that room I’m scared to leave, in which I don’t want to stay. A butcher’s room. SAW all over, or any other splatter movie you can think of.

I’m leaving, breaking my way away from that walls that may deconstruct. And fight. And destroy. I am afraid, we are in pain.

Still, all that bloody shit, it’s not my PMS. I leave, I go. I like the flowers, I hate the pig’s heart. That’s not my PMS.

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