Like a dead body anchored In the bottom of my belly Is where all the trauma of My Life Sits.
It moves, bobbing silently Pulsating as my digestion Desperately attempts to Flush It Down.
Shifting minutely Stifling my inability To lose the spare tire of Anxiety Around My belly.
I can feel a new shifting The dead lump lifting up To my conscious surface I cough Outbursts Of anger And tears.
The measure of vulnerability Coming up and out of me Is the corpse breaking apart Loosing The anchor Free.
©April 2019, Isabel Alvear