It's at home in my stomach
Pushing the walls south
Downwards towards my ovaries
Clutching them until they threaten infertility
And laughing with white teeth
Shiny cubes that tear apart my insides with their sound
Pounding through my circulation

I hear blood
Trying to reject me and my own
Filtering all my fears into tiny red cells
But they're always multiplying
Loving their own genetic code and replicating
Living dying birthing swimming
And blowing blooms around my tenant until it itself blossoms
Floods all throughout my body
Wiring my bones and shaking my hips
Until I'm shapeless

It's gnawed apart my mind with too rough kisses
Too fond memories cradled and buried
They are my dead child who won't eat my lungs
So I sit and stare into the sun and ask to be blinded
From the beetle that is crawling across my dress
And the grass that is growing between my ankles
And all the people passing me by
Sewn down to the earth by someone who belongs to them
Because it's all just to beautiful
While I'm too afraid not to smile when something makes me happy

But the leaves tethered to their trees block my vision
Leaving a sunburn where my hope used to be

It's funny how doubt can work itself inside of you so easily, tearing at foundations you laid so carefully you thought that there would be nothing that could cut through this home, this life you created. Yet the most common way it breaks through is by those places you refused to look into, those which were too far, too deep, to hard to look at in the face and stand against. It's funny, but then again, there really isn't anything humorous about it.