PMS: ONGOING NOTES

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It’s like...
Little elves of sorrow are rock-climbing on my face
The fuckers have planted their ropes with rusty nails and
are pulling the corners of my mouth downward
Singing « heigh oh »

It’s like

My heart, a rotten orange, is being squished by the over-
sized paws of a giant monster

Who made its way, without my consent
Deep into me through my secret place
Making a bitter juice, poisonous
The beast won’t stop until the fruit is all dried out, leaving
but a miserable prune in my thoracic cage, useless

Anyway, it’s like
Gloomy-green colored glasses, through which I see the
world and sigh with great disgust
And everyone I meet has a small revolver hidden in his
back pocket, ready to shoot
The suspense is killing me

It’s like the greatest hunger, and the greatest hurt
A hole in my guts I could never fill, leaving me on skinned
knees, hands in the mud, begging for the Bird of Doom to
come and grab me in his beak and fly me away, where no
one will find me
A little cave, my womb
My own personal Hell

Nobody asked but I’m telling you anyway.