There are four seasons that live inside of you,

and your universe need not be unknown.
 
I. menstrual
 
you are shedding from the inside / abandoning timelines and bleeding out bloodlines / the internal weather pattern shifts abruptly and leaves you depleted fighting your own skin and scraping the walls of your womb
to erase a plan you never made / shakes and chills, purging that leads to delusion naps and ice chips / dehydrated, you fold like a dainty croissant, cradling your softness in your arms / awaiting the ache to fade like a sip of hot chocolate that has singed the palate
 
II. follicular
 
you are unfolding, building new frames and expanding in heart and mind
each day blesses you with more largeness, more fuel, more capacity / problems solve themselves the way that corn kernels fall in lines by nature / your golden existence has waves that feel effortless and for the sweetly briefest of moments peace feels possible, focus feels friendly / you will forget how fleeting this is in the unbridled joy of renewal / you are a phoenix that knows death will come again, but welcomes the ignition / ablaze with an inner fire and eons of embers never extinguished
 
III. ovulation
 
you are releasing the blueprint of a possible world and the potential feels electric / you notice the curve of their clavicle and inhale the cologne of the grass the words come easier and you place them with bento box precision / you are both the invitation and the RSVP to the party / infused with renewable energy and confidence power-ups / suddenly you remember how their lips feel against yours and all at once there is energy to return a few favors
 
IV. luteal
 
you are building a home every day without your consent, which is why you slump as the walls rise and the foundation is laid, you are sullen and serotonin deficient / your body swells, holding onto water and tenderness, fear enters your cells / every emotion weighs heavier and takes up more space, a few feel dangerous and tectonic, chocolate plates create earthquakes in your daydreams / but your body refuses to translate the things you consume / justice and rage and self-pity and despair and suspicion and caution and loneliness and grief and against your better logic even helplessness become altars of worship for a lost and fading firefly in a cold, unfeeling darkness / arriving to life becomes a sequence of spinning plates that crash and you walk the shards of your imbalance, hoping your feet learn to callous

There are four seasons that live inside of you,

and you are a universe to behold.