Fear at the bottom of the stomache, a stone that swirls and shakes and knots, makes cold and queasy the body. Sleep flees the mind, hearing sharpens, heart and muscles clench.
Never want to hear the aggression, the hatred, the putrid venom spewing, but what choice is there, to drown it out unwise, to create noise to overwhelm the battle unthinkable,
terrifying to move let alone seek comfort.
Hope for change, hope for peace, hope for a calm stomache, of such that the stomache is forgotten until hunger arises. Hope for healing, for apologies.