Adenomyosis
Adenomyosis.
A pretty name
for something ugly.
It sounds like silk,
like moonlight,
like something soft enough
to hold in your hands.
But it is teeth.
It is a body
turning predator,
flesh learning violence,
organs becoming strangers
inside skin that no longer feels like mine.
It is pain
that arrives without knocking,
sits heavy in the pelvis,
sharp in the spine,
a knife with no handle
left buried where no one can see.
They ask,
“Is it really that bad?”
I want to hand them
the bathroom floor at 3 a.m.
The cold tiles.
The shaking hands.
The blood that feels endless.
The silence after another doctor says,
“Some women just have painful periods.”
Some women.
As if this is ordinary.
As if I am not unraveling
month after month,
stitched together only by routine
and spite.
There is nothing poetic
about bleeding until your body feels hollow.
Nothing beautiful
about pain so constant
you start measuring your life
in flares and appointments,
in heating pads and cancelled plans,
in how long you can stand upright
before your own body
drops you to your knees.
People love survivable pain.
They love it polished,
wrapped in brave little speeches,
tied up with resilience.
But this—
this is not inspiring.
This is grief
with nowhere to go.
This is anger
rotting quietly under the ribs.
This is watching your own reflection
and wondering
how someone can look so normal
while feeling like a graveyard.
I have smiled through it.
Laughed through it.
Apologised for it.
Sorry I’m late.
Sorry I cancelled.
Sorry my body is a haunted house
and I am trapped inside it.
Sorry I cannot make pain
more convenient for you.
Adenomyosis
is learning that suffering
can be invisible
and still consume everything.
It is being called dramatic
for bleeding through your dignity.
It is being told to rest
when rest does not touch it.
It is lying awake at night
feeling your own organs ache
and wondering
how something inside you
can hate you this much.
There are days
I feel less like a person
and more like a warning.
A caution sign.
A red stain.
A thing people look away from
because discomfort is easier
when it belongs to someone else.
This body
is not a temple.
It is a crime scene.
And every month
I return to it,
collecting evidence,
knowing no one
is coming to solve it.
Just me.
Just the blood.
Just the ache.
Just the long, slow horror
of living
inside something
that is supposed to keep you alive
but only knows
how to hurt.
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