K.K. Dream

it was in the dirt and mud that i was born. shallow piles of sodden leaves crumpled softly under bare feet when i had finally learned confidence in my step. the scent of fresh soil filled my nostrils as my hands grasped at wayward branches while i became self-taught in the ways of upward motion.
i remember the wild, still, even has the city has robbed me of it. i remember it every time my fangs bite into yielding flesh. i remember it when hackles raise because every errant noise is far too loud for senses honed to the stillness of the woods. i remember it especially when my confines press against my body, when the walls are too thin to roar, the buildings too smooth to climb.
i yearn daily to return, to escape my captivity, but would i know how to survive outside it anymore? even with lungfuls of fresh air, would my legs be capable of anything but falling out from underneath me? my body crumbles in a space built not for its ambulation and my mind underneath one which turns my instincts against me. there is no return, nor is there belonging.
yet still, i dream of claws and teeth, blood and dirt, trees and screams and running and silence and stillness all at once. dream because it is all i have left to connect me to the wild. because if i stopped, i would risk becoming one of them, and i'd far rather die a snarling beast than live a man.