The more I figured my body, the pettier I felt. Neither has it sensed of a melting ice nor vogued liked dripping flames. It was far-out, indeed marked by sheen insanity. Not a myriad of changes but I ventured the ripen delineation of mine. Days passed by as I felt the structuring bosoms of mine, supposedly filling the voidness of my life. Lower to the body, I could see the labia widening just like a ripen peach would rupture to deliver its matured essence. I was a lotusland within myself. Sometimes, the same trunk made me intimidated about getting ravished but was a little better than feeling the growth, the pleasure.
My mind in a nutshell did wonder a lot. Never had I encountered something this surreal and bizarre experience. I could feel my voice becoming shrill abruptly. Everything was a mundane happening. And soon I realized that it was the time, I was becoming a woman. The transition feels gruesome at times when it impugns me from childhood. My heart rips off recalling how I gave up my favorite sheer linen that made me comfortable every time I wriggled around people. It was just an act of bravado then. The coyness had found a way to knock off the confidence in me. Nevertheless, I was obliged to choose thick and foamy clothes to conceal what was supposed to be a privy part of my body, timid but a whole universe to the trunk. And this was not just my story, millions of houses go through this every single day. Moreover, this was not just it. Nature had to gift us more for certain, the Red Cycle.
It hadn’t been long since I started figuring out the changes, elusive and uncontrollable when I witnessed an eerie chill pass through my spine. I was laid stoic , the moment I noticed the red stain on my undies. Whenever the body released the blood, my body would quiver and render extreme ache. For a week or over, I’ve to pretend being fine and even throw a faux smile which looks so ugly on me because my mom always talked about the cycle being a taboo and it would be against human ethics to disclose such matters in public. Eventually, I comprehended that maturity is as beautiful as a full-fledged apricot droopy on a tree only when one can acknowledge the cracks on it. Juvenility is alike the seed inside tegmen that’ll sow as it gets its season.