Dear Period,

I didn't ask for you to be in my life.

None of us did. You visit us every month thinking that we will just accept you. That we will just willingly live with you, but I'm tired of you. Why me? What have I done to deserve this? I am not embarrassed to talk about you. I'm not scared of you. I'm just tired.

I didn't ask for you to excrete my uterine wall and have me take care of the blood and guts myself. I have to pay to take care of my blood and guts with my time and money. I have to pay for tampons, pads, or menstrual cups to deal with the mess you made. And why do you make it? Punishment for not being pregnant. Well, I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I'm not ready to have a child (for many reasons). Not like you understand how much having a baby costs--you don't even care that I have to clean up your mess. It's so much work, taking care of you. And so much money. Why can't you take care of yourself? Why do you rely on me? Get a life of your own. Stop living through me.

And you always visit without warning. Why couldn't you just text me? Call me? E-mail me? All I get is an occasional pain in my innards. Then you come. Heavy and all at once. A bloodbath no matter where I am--whether it be in class, or at work, at rehearsal, at a gathering...you are ruthless. More bloody than that one episode of Game of Thrones.

Don't get me wrong. I am strong. I do everything I need to get done- even when you visit, Period. It's just so annoying that I have to change my tampon every once in a while I'm getting my work done. You do not limit me, as much as men think. Men can't empathize, and I know that's hard for them. Poor guys don't have the luxury of bleeding out of their genitals, having to deal with the intense pain. And the vast majority of those who cannot empathize still think that you limit me from becoming president. Please. I deal with you every month. And I will deal with you for quite a while longer.

I guess you're not going anywhere anytime soon. But I will never love you. That may be why you can't stay away--you love me. But listen. You cause me pain. You ruin my clothes. And I just don't think I can forgive you. I can't even say that we've had good times together. You don't make me feel fulfilled, and neither would having a child. So, please, just go. You've caused me pain and strife that I no longer want to deal with. My underwear and my wallet will be grateful for your absence.

I want a restraining order.

- Emily Bochette

P.S. See you in a few weeks, Period.