It begins with a whisper,
a shadow stitched to her womb,
its weight pressing like a secret,
its roots spreading unseen.

They call it normal—
the blood that floods like rivers,
the cramps that steal her breath,
the clots dragging her body down.

Pain coils in her pelvis,
a fire that burns without end.
Her bladder aches, her bowels rebel,
her back bends beneath its weight.

They say it’s just being a woman,
but how do you explain the storms?
The tissue growing where it shouldn’t,
the scars binding organs into one.

She carries fatigue like a second skin,
her energy drained by invisible wars.
Her body becomes a battlefield—
every nerve alive with rebellion.

Doctors speak over her pain:
It’s all in your head, they insist.
But how do you imagine blood that stains,
or pain that splits you in two?

One day, she stops asking for answers.
She stands tall in the face of dismissal.
Her voice rises like thunder:
This is my body; I know it best.

Her womb is no longer their battlefield;
it is sacred ground she reclaims.
The shadow no longer consumes her—
it becomes part of her story, not its end.