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Feb 18, 2025
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O wretched cramps, thou fickle foe,
thou dost conspire with stabbing woe.
uterine betrayal to mine own heart,
doth mock me with its bitter art.
one moment I laugh, then weep I do,
alas, my jeans, now crimsoned through.
I long to scream, to shout, to rage in vain,
yet lo, I must hold such a wrath in chain.
am I some hysterical woman? nay, I protest,
'tis this monthly cycle which all would detest,
if they knew this unrule the moon doth decree,
they'd cry with sorrows as deep as we.
though anguish plagues, still doth my soul,
hold infinite love beyond control.
so to those I cherish, know this well,
I care for thee, more than pain could swell.
