Laughing With My Mouth Full

There is a kind of joy
that refuses to be quiet—
a raucous, irreverent, resplendent delight
that rises in the chest like incense,
uncontainable, perfumed with everything
I once thought I had to stifle.

I do not dab at the corners of my lips.
I do not swallow the sound
just to appear small.
I do not apologise for tasting the moment
while it is still warm and dripping with honey.

Let me tell you—
I have known the crisp snap of sweet apple,
sun-warmed and brazen in my palm,
and I did not wait to be watched to bite.
I have devoured life in thick slices,
licked the remnants from my fingers,
giggled mid-chew like a child drunk on sunlight.

I have spilled wine while telling a story
too brilliant to pause for caution,
punctuated sentences with clumsy gesticulations,
and I will do it again—
because my joy is not porcelain,
not meant to be shelved
or shown only under glass.

My joy is kinetic.
Uncensored.
Riotous with colour and complexity.
It is the flavour of forbidden peaches,
the laughter that ruptures silence
like thunder through a chapel.

And yes—
sometimes my mouth is full
when I throw my head back and laugh,
and I do not care
that it is considered inelegant
to do both at once.

I am not here
to be elegant.
I am here
to be exquisite.

To taste the fruit and the fire.
To marinate in the moment,
to be both consumer and consumed
by the feast of this singular life.

I am not sorry
for the jubilant cacophony of my living.
For the abundance in my expression,
for the crumbs that dare cling to my lips
like they, too, want to stay and witness.

I am not sorry
for loving the meal and the story and the laughter
all at once.

I was never meant to be palatable.

I was meant to be delicious.