A Period Piece

The poetry I write, really ain’t that good.

The poetry I write, is easily misunderstood.

The poetry I write, white letters gently pressed,

The poetry I write, daily feelings often repressed.

Sometimes in the AM, but mostly just at night, the words just start flowing, from clear out of site. A new ability, I have tried to share. Alas, here I am broken, sitting in a pillow chair.

Not a soul cares to listen, should verbal words come their way. Readings a different story, on any given day. Words by talk to text, or on a screen can take us far away.

Away from the hushed cries in the cold of night, pushing past the pains brought on that day. Nightmares captured in thoughts and memories, rarely spoken or shared.

Wait, what’s that sound?

A momentary distraction, is that a squirrel over there? 🥜🐿️

The shattered feeling, comes once more. As a menstrual cramp rips open the basement door. Instant crippling pain, rips right through the core.

Then on to the back, where it screams once more. No spaces left, between those disks. Welcome to Degerative Disc Disease, try saying that 10 times, real quick.

Hush child! Whimper silently in the dark of the night. For others are sleeping, and you won’t risk a fight.

The waves of pain and nasuea keep coming, slamming consistently, one by one. Each one bringing the vomit closer to the barrel of the gun.

Sleep is forbidden, 3am anxiety must run. Programmed like a midnight infomercial, the show simply must go on.

Gotdamn, I am tired and this is just day one. I staring down the barrel of a work week long shotgun.

Feeling slightly better than recycled dog chow, I push to go on. Wondering all the while, when the pain will be gone.

Estrogen levels, skyrocket out of control. The doctors took away the synthetic progesterone, without a call on the phone.

If I’m being honest, over the counter pain meds stopped working years ago. It leaves me only to question

‘Is this the cost of being broken at the hands of abusive men for 20 years in a row?’

Or, maybe I earned this, by simply being born all those years ago.

There is no help, or relief in site. Until I hit menopause, or conclusion of my life. Awesome news for a woman that has chased by ghosts, he whole life.

Another for your basket, maiden so fair. Have another for your basket, to wear under your lovely hair.

You’re so incredibly haunted, yet it’s 3am and the pain will never yield, down there.

Another gut punch rips me right back to life. Right here on makeshift pillow bed, in the dawns early light.

Soon, it will be time to get up and start the day. Pretends you’re not broken, is every possible way.

Try to breath through them, it might get you through the day. You can’t have margaritas or hide in a corner sulking all damned day.

Gotdamn I’m so tired, in the anxiety bed I’ve made. Nodding off now, in between the pain….