As i confided tearfully to Chris on Friday, "I don't know WHY I'm being so sensitive, but oh, this hurts..." I'd just finished taking an offhand (and, yes, somewhat insensitive) remark really badly and fighting with him about it.

Emotional instability has been my hallmark this week. I've gone from one extreme to another, generally landing at bitchy and frustrated and completely insecure, ready to take offense at a sidelong glance. This is not normal for me at all, and had me all confused.

At least, I was confused until tonight, when I realized that the reason I'd been alternately bitchy and weepy was...

PMS.

This makes month #4 of regular cycles. Another eight months of this, sans hormonal intervention, and I will be officially reproductively normal. No more PCOS. For the first time in my *entire* life, my cycles have been both regular and mostly pain-free. No more taking ibuprofen horse pills. no more worrying about osteoperosis.

T3 has made *that* much of a difference for me. It's really amazing. My body is actually healing itself, now that it's being given the tools to do so.

I just had to wait for them to invent the therapy that would help me. I'm kindly disposed towards medical science right now.

I just have to remember that PMS exists. Heh. My mom says I need to take more B vitamins. whee...

[and, yes, Chris and I resolved our issue and everything's back on an even keel; as even as the storm that is our relationship ever gets, anyway.]

okay. time to finish cleaning the kitchen. night, all.

the second thesis
a difficult world

some words give up their meanings easily,
combined in sentences lucid
as glass, frozen in the long slow fall
towards the center of everything.
some stanzas spread their legs
and dare you to do your worst.

others hide their ankles
under a fantasy of meaningless syllables
and nonsense line breaks.
They want to be flirted with,
have their meanings teased out of them,
rewarding the virtuous with a chaste kiss
and a flash of nipple;
many of these stanzas die virgins.

then there are those stanzas
cold and clear as a midwinter night,
when stars are revelations and
the trees are a silent congregation
listening raptly to the sermon of the jet stream.
Where your fragile flesh feels like an intrusion
shattering the air, your breath
clouds passing between you and the sky.
Clearer than water or the ringing of bells,
clear as space, as vaccum, as the solitary atoms
that vibrate so slowly in that forever winter
the long slow distances between stars.

these are the poems that you pack onto a spaceship
and send to the moon. Hoping beyond hope
that the travelers will return, falling
into a world changed by distance and time
into something strange and delightful,
laying a cold dry hand on their shoulders,
reminding them of a time that was not so warm

and a world that was never so beautiful, so loved.

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