~ a poem ~
Every month, without fail, it happens.
I’ll find myself in my closet,
or in my bathroom,
or on my bed
My mind will be saying the worst possible things about me,
worse than what anyone has ever said to my face.
(We all know those parts of ourselves,
the exact buttons to push.)
It doesn’t matter what I’m doing.
cry into my hands,
It only lasts for
two or three minutes.
Then I take a nice long deep breath,
and go about the rest of my day or evening.
It sucks, even when I know it’s coming. Because it comes every month.
And I have yet to prove it wrong.
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