Muzzled

a wild soul in a domesticated world.
people engage their automatic small talk towards me,
“how are you?”
I say, “I am great. I am so happy. Life is good.”
And I often mean it.
But I also feel like a snarling wolf
backed into a corner,
taken hostage by a slip around the neck,
muzzled into silence.
Muzzled into thinking this is how it’s supposed to be.
This is what “order” looks like.
But the aching for wild freedom screams otherwise.
These spoken and unspoken rules of properness
weigh on me
and if I could just strip down to my skin
and return to the place where weeds are not weeds,
where they grow without that curved blade
striking them down to clear a path for industrialization.
If I could return to the place
where water skippers blissfully hop
before being gulped by a fish with a golden underbelly.
Where rocks are made from minerals,
harsh circumstances,
and time rather than from concrete.
The place where I am more predator than prey.
The place where the work of a hunter gatherer meets play.
I know I’ll make it back there.
My hair will dread and my feet will stay bare.
For now I remain muzzled.
Through gritted teeth I’ll respond to your small talk,
“all is well, and you?”