Holding a Name

At one point in 2014, there was something going on.
In 2015, I got my period so hard I wanted to cut
something out from inside the middle of myself.
In 1999, I cried in church about a cat that something
had taken from us, our family, from underneath the porch.
Something was in the shadowy parts,
crouching behind my peripherals in places I can't
put a finger on or hold a name to.

Something is eating the tomatoes outside
and a different something is eating away
at the lining of my friend's stomach.

I have dreams that I submerge something in the water
and hold it there to see how it twists and turns and maybe
struggles or maybe thrives and swims free.

In 2018, I have this raw, distinct feeling
that I'm misunderstanding something.