There's a lion inside my stomach.
He's been there for quite a while now.
He growls whenever he's hungry
and sleeps when he is full,
but he's growing older now
and I can't control him like I used to.
He's like a child but worse.
He doesn't know right from wrong.
He doesn't do what I tell him
and he doesn't want to leave.
He's comfortable in there,
all tucked up where he's hidden safe
from the dangers of the outside,
but he's a vicious predator.
He doesn't know that just yet.
He's still too young despite his mane.
I can feel him move sometimes,
curling up or tossing over in his sleep,
but I know he's not really there.
He's not a child that I will ever birth.
He's just a child inside of me
who will never taste the petrichor
or feel the sun on his eyelids
or see the snow drift from the heavens.
He's just a child that awakens
to stir a roar that fills my heavy skull.
When he sleeps, I am happy
and for a moment, my chest unclenches.
I will never be free of the lion
for he has found a home in my flesh lining,
but I will cradle him and smile,
for this child I call a lion is ill and weak.
His roars are but simply a cry.