by Jade Driscoll

Fuck your presence in my life.
Fuck the money I spend on menstrual products every year,
and fuck the fact that words like tampon and pad make people
uncomfortable–and while we’re at it, fuck the shame
people throw around that makes me still feel embarrassed
buying those products despite being twenty-fucking-six years old.
Fuck the mornings I wake up with blood-stained sheets because you insisted
on leaking through an overnight pad, my underwear, and my leggings.
Fuck the mornings I don’t wake up with blood-stained sheets
because I couldn’t sleep anyway, too busy worrying about bleeding through.
Fuck how I can skip you with the pill occasionally,
but then you come back with a goddamn vengeance the next time.
Fuck the times where I think you’ve been chill for maybe five seconds,
but then I shift in my seat or stand up and I feel everything you were holding back.
Fuck you for being far too heavy for the just use tampons all the time crew,
no matter how absorbent and super and super PLUS the boxes claim to be.
Fuck the exhaustion you seep into every bone in my body–
the fact that I can’t workout or stay awake past 10PM
or stop curling my body in on itself because that’s the only way I’m comfortable.
Fuck every doctor who doesn’t take you seriously.
Fuck your bloated weight, the outfits I’m normally confident in
but can’t bring myself to wear for a whole week at a time.
Fuck all the extra food I buy and eat because you convince me
I’m hungry, but then the hunger never goes away.
Fuck the migraines, and double fuck the cramps.
Fuck the urge to use the bathroom in public because you’re so goddamn excessive
and messy and unceasing, and I have to hope no one sees me move
from stall to sink because my hands look like I’ve committed murder.
Fuck how disgusting and undesirable I feel every second you’re here,
how I hate myself because I’m not myself because I can’t function right,
how I fear everyone can tell it’s that week and how they think I’m gross.
Fuck all the people who villainize and weaponize you until humiliation and guilt
compound my misery, and there is nothing I can do about it.
Fuck you for somehow getting worse each time,
and preemptively fuck you next month, too.