PMT

Because maybe it's real and maybe it isn't.

I want to eat dinner again, and then

A little bit more after that. I’m fat.

I’m bothered by every damn thing. I sing

Off-key and I can’t hold a thought. I’m short

With children who don’t want abuse, just juice,

And husbands who just want a smile; and while

I’m searching through odd Tupperware, despair

Takes over and I start to cry. But why?