The Caged Thing

It lives beneath the skin,
a thing with bared teeth and black eyes,
curled tight in the ribs,
pacing the length of my spine,
waiting.

I pretend it isn’t there.
I dress it in civility,
in pressed shirts and measured words,
in the careful cadence of a man who does not burn.
But it watches from behind my eyes,
tongue flicking against the bars,
knowing better.

It knows the taste of blood,
knows the thrill of a clenched fist,
the way bones promise to break beneath pressure.
It knows the old hunger—
the one that speaks in muscle memory,
that hums beneath reason,
that whispers, Let me out.

And some nights—
some nights, I almost do.

When the weight of the world leans too hard,
when the leash pulls too tight,
when the careful, steady voice cracks
and the beast snarls through the gap.
I can feel it rise,
can feel the old, wild thing
flex its limbs inside me,
can taste its impatience on my tongue.

But I have learned control.

I have learned how to wrap my hands
around its throat,
to press it back into the hollow place
where it cannot ruin me.
I have learned that power is not in the breaking,
but in the restraint.
That to hold the beast and not unleash it
is the truest kind of dominance.

So I let it pace.
Let it breathe its hot, sharp breath against my ribs.
Let it press its nails against my skin.
Because I am not its master—
I am its cage.