I always wear black trousers when I have my period. I was traumatised by the spots of blood that a friend noticed on the white skirt of my school uniform one Monday. I felt so ashamed. I was like Stephen King’s Carrie at the senior prom, splattered and sticky with blood all over her face, chest, arms, legs. Hmm. How about borrowing that scene for my ad?

No, no. That would be repulsive.

Blood is fear. Madness. Women having periods can spread terror. But no one dependent on painkillers can be totally sane. And some of us are addicts.

My frustration grows. Has women’s bleeding ever been the subject of poetry?

I think about tales of women in the harems of Istanbul. They were the most beautiful of women, handpicked by the sultan for his collection. Some were far more valuable than gold. After the first night, bloodstained sheets draped in the window would signal the sultan’s pride at having lain with a pure maiden.

I twirl my pen round and round. My gaze wanders, follows the vertical and horizontal stripes on the ceiling.

I remember how my heart pounded when I was about to sleep with my first boyfriend. He and I were looking forward to it, including the blood. We were like little kids running around in anticipation of a rainbow after showering in the rain.

There was no blood.

‘This isn’t your first time.’ His voice was soft but his words carried a rebuke. He turned around, his back to me.

It wasn’t a question, so there was no need for me to respond.

Three days later, I seduced him in his car. He seemed to have developed amnesia about our recent Cold War skirmish. We parked on campus, behind a building that was rarely visited. He kissed me, his lips parched. This time he witnessed his coveted rainbow.

He jerked away, his fingers coated in blood.

I laugh. Uproariously. I, an adolescent. I, now alone in bed. I begin to drift, transported by the wild smoke. Anise, nutmeg, pepper and eucalyptus oil tickle my nose. Adolescent me and adult me are giggling, side by side.

‘That’s what you want, right?’

My beloved released me from his embrace, gaping. He stared at his palms, then looked at me in disgust. Blood soaked the back seat of his car, oozing into a pool of crimson. Menstrual blood.

After that act of revenge I promised myself not to shower in the rain with little boys.

And now I lose a lot of blood each month. My body smells of copper. Dogs sniff after me, follow along, their tongues hanging out.

Three years ago, being responsible about my sexual health, I asked a doctor what contraception suited me best.

An interrogation followed: ‘Are you married?’

‘No, I’m not,’ I said.