Invisible?

impotent
ignored
in
my own home.

pouting?
perhaps.

but that doesn't make the dull pain in my chest any less real.
I can't reconcile my life with this one
happy and full
and yet
not allowed
not acknowledged
not consulted
not
other stuff.
a glass of water falling on my head
again.
the cold
the wet
the "ow"
all mine
god dammmmit,
would you just do that one thing that madonna asked?
no, not that one.
the other one.
only not "mine", yours.
and not necessarily with a key.
just stop worrying,
stop using that worry to push away
stop fearing.
hold on loosely, they say.
"they" know.
being crushed through indifference--
more painful than it sounds.

I'm 90% sure this is the ugly, but smooth work of one nasty little PMS fairy.
god, I hate that bitch.
you do know her, don't you??
I'm sure you've seen her around...
crumpled looking thing, really.
flies buzzing around,
perpetual glare on her face.
laughing gas in a handy back pack.
her wings aren't even real--they're sewn onto her back, with sweater yarn.
her teeth are green...not from rot, just from sucking on too many sour apple ring pops.
she limps down the hall, dragging her other left foot--
the one that should be a right foot,
but could never be right, since it's 3 inches too long.
her striped tights,
with a hole in one knee--
not of the tights, either.
a hole in one patella.
it makes a swooshing sound when she walks (limps).
the rattling of her breath is only from the dreams she has so carelessly inhaled,
as she bent low over sleeping pre-menstrual women,
who would then wake in a dazey sort of confusion, grasping for something unknown, yet lost.
she was supposed to deposit them in a jar, like a dozen fireflies on a summer night,
but her smoking habit had cultivated in her the need for deeper breaths and quite by mistake, in they went.
dreams, trapped in one's lungs, have nearly the same sound as rusty nails in a bucket.
yes, the rust changes the sound.
you'll know her by the sound, if nothing else.

so, there you have it.
the little cunt is here.
somewhere.
lurking.
hissing, and spitting, as her oddly-strong patience wears thin.

and at least my tantrum worked...
hubby's putting the kids to bed and feeding himself.
fucking hormones.
I god damn BETTER have time for one more good fuck before the out of order sign is hastily hung across my twat.
(say it like the Brits, if ya wanna make me grin: it rhymes with "hat")

happy saturday to you all.
I'll get back to enjoying mine now, methinks.
(sunny and 70 today, washed the car inside and out--fervently)
(same weather tomorrow, kids to zoo with best friend and her kids)
fuck, but it's fun to ride the PMS rollercoaster!!!!!!!!!
all aboooooaard!!!!