Each time

Wring your hands,
think terrible things,
braise imaginary conversations on a low
boil for hours.
You search for an explanation
for the darkness,
or the insatiable hunger.
The hunger growls deep,
and something claws at you -
a chance thought of something
that happened in 1999
can make you weep

or the inconsiderate flippance of a 

stranger

can send you into a spin of rage.
You know what's coming,
your diary is marked in pencil -
but still, each time,
you wonder.
You're unstable, yes,

but it all makes sense 

when, 

on your fifth bourbon biscuit,
a notification from your app pings
and perkily klaxons:
your period is due in 2 days.