This belly bloats. I cannot name the source.
Wine? Rage fermented? Supplements that lied?
The grief of life adjusted off its course?
The muddy waters rising from inside?
My gut wrings out what I did not put in —
some older acid, thicker than my own.
I clench. I sweat. I carry what's been
passed down like heirlooms carved from ash and bone.
The body knows what the mind won't say.
It twists. It protests. It keeps the score.
I did not choose to feel the world this way.
I did not ask to be my father's war.
Let me shout. Let me cry. Let me be heard.
The gut speaks first. The mouth finds no word.