Listen to your guts
Those wrenching, clenching, squelching knots they make.
They’re telling you something,
You may not want to hear.
I doubted their bubbling ways.
Told myself that all was well
That memories are just playing with bile
But all the while
They knew your untruths.
You lied to my face and it believed you
But my entrails are less naive.
So next time I hear that rumble
I won’t mistake it for thunder
But I will know a storm is coming.