Water Works

I basically have
two good weeks
a month.
The other two
are spent
tethered to
some form of
feminine sanitary
product or another.
The former
of the two weeks
is spent feeling
(and functioning)
like a leaky faucet
dripping rusty water --
which, at any moment,
has the potential
to burst into a
high pressure
water line rupture.
The latter is spent
trying to control
a situation akin
to a gushing
fire hydrant,
waddling around
with layers of
cotton wedged into
uncomfortable places,
and shaking my fist
at the great plumber
in the sky.