This poem is preserved in the writer’s original wording.
Where should I begin,
how about using hot pads so hot they actually burn my skin.
Swallowing painkillers until my thoughts turn hazy,
still the pain cuts through — sharp, deep, and crazy.
Days disappear as I’m trapped in my bed,
silent screams echo loud in my head.
But this pain isn’t something that just began,
it’s a constant shadow — a curse I never planned.
For years I’ve been fighting this invisible thief,
stealing my joy, my strength, my relief.
One in ten women are living this fight,
yet most are dismissed, told “it’s just period pain” — like that makes it right.
Side effects and symptoms, the list never ends,
this illness doesn’t care about work, dreams, or friends.
Chronic pain, IBS, sickness, infertility, heavy bleeding —
each day feels like my body is pleading.
Organs stuck together like they’ve made a vow,
and I’m left wondering, why me? Why now?
It can take years to get a diagnosis in hand,
because too many still don’t understand.
There is no cure, just ways to survive,
and somehow I keep myself alive.
It doesn’t rest when I sleep, it doesn’t pause when I cry,
it gnaws at my insides, and I still don’t know why.
Some days I’m strong, some days I break,
every breath feels like more than I can take.
And yet I rise, though I’m battered and worn,
carrying hope through nights that feel endless and torn.
Because my voice can turn whispers to screams,
and maybe one day, we’ll shatter this disease at its seams.