Pain surges through my body,
No matter how I sit, how I lay,
I feel like I have been stabbed.
It’s just period pain.
Just is a funny word, it implies it could be worse,
Maybe it could, but as the pain travels down to my thigh, to my knee, then up again to my lower back,
I’m not sure it could get worse.
The nausea kicks in, I feel faint,
Am I swaying?
I stumble to the toilet, retching with agony,
My body tries to get rid of the sin; Of the apple Eve ate,
But it feels hopeless.
I begin to burn up,
So I fling myself to the cold cool bathroom tiles,
What else am I to do?
The room is swallowed by misery, myself as well,
I can do nothing but lay on the floor and take it,
Every four weeks,
Again and again I am tormented; punished,
And for what?
What have I accomplished that is equal to this, Monstrosity?
Nov 15, 2025
Nov 15, 2025 at 9:27 PM UTC
God and I talk;
We have conversations over text,
emails,
letters.
I pray, and he receives it.
God tells me he will fix my issues,
And the issues get fixed,
but not from his doing.
I fix my issues myself,
blood,
sweat,
tears,
hope.
And I cannot complain to God, because my issues are now fixed.
But I know it was not him, for it was me.
My work.
My problem-solving.
My answers.
I cannot complain, except
Now I’m left with the baggage, the bloodied tissue, the left behind mess from cleaning the issue.
God could snap his fingers and whisk it away, but
I fixed the problem, not God,
So I try to find a bin, to hide the mess, but I can’t,
The mess builds up, and it becomes my problem,
My issue,
So I call God.
God and I talk;
We have conversations about the mess over text,
emails,
letters.
I pray, and he receives it.
God tells me he will fix my mess,
And the mess get fixed,
but not from his doing.
And the cycle continues, but I cannot complain to God, because my mess is now fixed.
Nov 15, 2025
Nov 15, 2025 at 9:22 PM UTC
I dictate others emotions, their luck, their fate,
When I have a good day—I destroy their lives,
When I have a bad day—they get to be happy,
God is playing a psychological game with me,
But I can’t figure out the rules.
I must sacrifice my own happiness for others,
I must martyr my mental health,
Jesus dying wasn’t enough for this sick God
He had to inflict more pain;
Something worse than physical,
Mental.
I am Sisyphus, punished.
I must forever take the burden of a meaningless task,
And why? Just because someone above me
Commands me to, I must obey.
I too cheated death—I got better,
I escaped God’s grasp. I healed.
And now I must live with the consequences,
Of knowing how it feels to be happy,
But being unable to.
Jan 3, 2025
Jan 3, 2025 at 8:33 PM UTC
You wanted to escape it; to free yourself,
A dove in the pantry; it wasn’t fit for you,
Maybe if things had been different,
Maybe you would have lived easier,
And you were oh so toxic,
My bones would melt from radiation,
From the hate spewed from your mouth,
But weren’t you taught that?
If your parents were not religious,
Would you still feel that anger? That hatred?
Would you still have shamed me for my own?
We could have ended things nicer,
I do not regret leaving at all,
But I do wish you had better support,
For those feelings to go somewhere,
Rather than back at me,
Jan 3, 2025
Jan 3, 2025 at 8:31 PM UTC