HRT, The Gel, and Me

by MissT

I slap on the gel like a woman possessed,
Arms in the air like I’m under arrest.
Don’t touch the cat, the kids, the man
I’m radioactive, stuck to the fan.

I’m sticky, sweaty, slightly deranged,
My brain and my body? Completely estranged.
One minute I’m weeping, the next I could scream,
This isn’t a phase—it’s a fever dream.

I used to be fire, I used to be thrill,
Now I’m Googling “Why won’t my legs stay still?”
My joints are cracking, my patience thin,
And don’t get me started on my chin.

Sleep? What sleep? I toss and I turn,
Then fall into comas from which I can’t return.
I wake to pee, then fall too deep,
Missed school run? Oops—sorry, sleep.

I’ve got moods that swing like a pub door fight,
One wrong word and you’ll feel my bite.
But tell me to smile? You’d better run
I’m not your babe, I’m someone’s mum.

The progesterone pills, oh soft and neat
But they make me dream of desert heat,
I cuddle a fan like it’s my man,
And curse the day this hell began.

But still I rise, my sass intact,
Don’t let the sweat fool you—I never cracked.
I’m fifty-four, I’ve earned my crown,
I won’t be silenced or dumbed down.

So here’s to the rage, the bloat, the tears,
The warrior formed from perimenopause fears.
I’m not a mess, I’m not in decline—
I’m just in bloom—now pass the wine.