Middle-Pain

It's just a knife

The story of this poem: I deal with Premenstrual Dysphoric Disorder on a daily basis, and one day I found myself filled with rage at how much of my time and energy I spend reckoning with this thing inside me that’s beyond my control. This is a revision of the poem I wrote that day.

MIDDLE-PAIN

The German word is mittelschmerz. 
It translates to middle-pain.
Another definition I can trade:
Slippery guts torn ragged
By a master’s searching blade.
No white flag thrown by my hands is enough.
Middle-pain: she fucks you rough.

Middle-pain shouts:
“Potential is bursting through the door!”
I dig deep, 
I do my best to ignore it,
I do amazing self-care for it,
And it is still a bomb inside.
It is still a knife.

It translates to middle-pain. 

As Trump curled all his naughty fingers 
‘Round my country’s wheel,
My body’s cavern
Echoed my own egg’s protesting squeals:
It chose last night
To throw a fist and make the journey,
To remind me of my burden,
To bring me back down to sea level
Just when I began to rise,
Just when I started to forget
How the ache of each month feels,
Just when it started to seem not-real.

It translates to middle-pain. 

This ride's a comic villain:
It lacks those human decencies
Of tact and timing.
(Much like our new president, you see.)
Though I resent the state of our union,
I feel no confusion
Over which things I can control.
I cannot change the results of elections,
But I can let my words spin.
When I feel the horror slip onto my face,
I can mask it with a deep grin.

It translates to middle-pain.

How can I explain
That this is not the proper label?
Let’s rework it with the writers
Who named Axe and Doritos:
Something more…
Neon-nineties-extreme, please.
If I have to have it,
Can it at least sound radical?

It translates to middle-pain,

And even though I find the light,
That glow comes from a bomb inside.
Do not make me admire your fine sword.
It’s just a knife.
 

Thank you so much for reading my work.

See you next week.