Sometimes all the showers in the world can’t wash me clean.
Sometimes what I wish to rinse away is years of soot unseen…
Dark places where I harbor the grit and grime of my icky parts.
I notice that I think hot water will make it better.
Another cookie should dull the pain.
Maybe a funny movie will take it all away?
It’s only my premenstrual pain.
She is awakening.
The one within who is angry. Irritable. Annoyed.
It’s that time of the month, or so they say…
She doesn’t want to talk to you.
She doesn’t want to see you.
She wants to leave the world of distractions and delve into the insides.
She is the rushing undercurrent of lava.
A hot-bed of molten rock.
She is power and fury and grace.
And in a world where she’s been shamed…
She is tired of trying.
She is not so inspired by life.
When she comes I forget why I love.
When she comes she shows me all the places that I’m lying.
She pulls the covers off the stored furniture of my heart.
Reveals the places I’ve hidden from light.
Like a freshly picked scab, she reveals tender flesh.
And makes me feel it.
I can’t eat her away.
I can’t shoo her away.
I can only channel her angst into creative masterpieces of messy fun or fruitful pleasure.
She makes me take hold of my voice and look right in the eye of my lie.
I can’t pretend when she comes to town.
Not at all.