Reptile

 She awaits judgement and the first stone is forced. Her mouth is propped open and the swallowing is slow. It’s painful and embarrassing—to be open-mouthed and vulnerable in front of family and friends and worse, enemies. The rock rests in her gut, right where she can feel it. Day and night, she senses it, sitting heavy. Her truth is misshaped, and its sharp, sharp edges slash her toughening skin. She keeps a straight face while more rocks are served for meals followed by words she never meant to say, words never meant to destroy her living.

Now she is placed in the water, barely recognizable—rarely seen, floating with the undercurrent. Her eyes stare forward, while the scars form on her hidden soft spots. Her blood, teeming with movement is slowing, cooling a bit every day. Rippling in the murky green river, she sees her reflection but doesn’t know herself. She used to laugh and smile and carry no dread, but the predators now surround her: big cats, leopards, jaguars. She submerges to avoid the pain, the insults and the allegation.

Every day a rock, a pebble, a stone help her to digest the smirking and the loneliness. Stacked in her gut just waiting to grind the ache for home and the throb for affection, stones sleep at the very core of her knowing. That knowing is the only one who sees the truth. Years in the nighttime waters callous her sadness and turn her insides cold. Immovable eyes see only the enemy and the next stone to swallow. Her skin is thick with scales, camouflaging rage with calm.

Years of ingesting stones and appearing extinct, she sinks lower into herself. Her swamp is infested with bitterness and shame, and the grit keeps her from rising. Fixing her gaze on nothing, she is now the predator—the armored hunter who owns the lake. A strong temptation to devour the innocent and the frightened rests on her tongue just in case her jaws slam shut and swallow whole.

Still.

So very still.

Still, submerged by a belly full of stones.