The Copper T

From behind the mask she duly asserts:
Most women feel liberated.
Legs open wide
and cervix constricts.
Nails dig into my closed fists.
Shaky whistles settle into deep breaths.
The speculum squeaks
as it pulls my lips apart.
Intra-uterine implantation.
Foreign body invasion.
Abdominal convulsions.

This cursed copper coil
claiming to be my saviour
very slyly sets me up
for blood-ier battles.
Hail those valiant ladies,
who kept it within for years.
Strange things we do to ourselves
in pursuit of emancipation.
And how we brawl
to have a say on our own bodies.

I am still plagued by disquiet inside
Which every 28th day multiplies
Far greater mood swings, stinging pangs
Abdomen being pulled inwards
And lower back being broken into tiny splinters
All colliding together in spurts
Controlled by some unrelenting nerve
Frail and destructible is the flesh, it asserts

I hold my back and my tummy
Slip into cosy blankets and warm cushions
And fall into the abyss of loathing everything
Especially my uterus
Internet articles (about hysterectomy), some hope they bring
Also maybe some yoga
The child pose, cat, cow, cobra and the dog
All animals who may have it worse, who knows?

But right now I dwell in my misery
Drama queen, I may be
A steady flow of blood can pacify
Slumberland is a backbreaking pursuit, but I try
Hoping that the next 24 days will be less theatrical
Life will mellow the vanilla song and I would hum along