Screaming. Yelling. Waking up dogs. High-pitched.
Mom texts. She’s always got to be busier than me. My jaw is tense. Opened up the jaw inside my ears. Imagine if ears could talk and jaws could listen. I think that wiggled some food around and helped me digest some things – or is it coming back up?
Brie cheese. Artichokes. Cake and pastries. My kid called me a bubble chub, or bubble gut – oh ya – bubble gut. Maybe my belly can be prayed to like Jesus – what the.. Buddha?
Scream, shout, holler and laugh. I’ve been called intense. Tenacious. Defensive and sensitive. I want my roar back – ferociously guarding the gates of hell, or my values, or my accomplishments or whatever it is – that lion poised at the entrance to a driveway – so centred, so self-assured, revered and respected.
My armpits are sweating in my shirt – the oil I rubbed on my belly smells good but my pits are taking my attention away.
I’m not here to be a shrinking violet. Sure, I’m here to be kind and compassionate but not a pushover.
Hear me roar. Hear me scream. Hear me take up space. Hear me be heard, right here.
where rivers are born 