Cramps and Questions

I spent most of my day on my kitchen floor with my sister's pillow and my parents' blanket.
I spent my waking moments writhing in pain and screaming into my pillow.
"Why me, why me, why me?"
Of course, I got no response.

The pain was so physical I couldn't think of anything besides
STOP BREATHING AND DIE
But my body, traitor that it is, refused.
It decided that it preferred inexplicably excruciating pain to peace and silence.

I spent most of my day in my bra, on my stomach.
Wracked by spasms of pain so intense I can only describe them as akin to violation by a corkscrew.
Gathering my strength to roll around wailing
When I was too tired to move, I asked the man upstairs to give me oblivion already.
But alas. I'm still alive.

When I woke up that last time, I lay on my back, staring at the ceiling
Asking myself, "Is it over?"
It was.
For the moment.

Fifteen minutes later all coherent thought was obliterated.
All I could do was yell to the heavens "Why me why me why me why fucking me"
Not just because of the pain.
Why me?

Today I chose to make myself a victim.
Tomorrow the term "victim" will choose to make itself me.
Six days of torture and asking a God I refuse to acknowledge to have mercy.


Why me why me why me
Why fucking me?

--

Note: This poem was originally written on 27 May 2014. I'm republishing it here because I'm revamping the blog it was originally published on.