I can’t breathe.

The fog has swallowed the world beyond these walls. Winter darkness has settled in, and still I stay inside. But it is the warmth, the safety, the soft smiles of this home that wrap their hands around my throat — and I am suffocating.

Have I grown so used to being hunted —
so shaped by the predators, that safety itself steals my oxygen?

So I run from it —
from the warmth,
from the sanctuary.

I step into the dark.

I walk beneath the weight of shadow,
my feet sinking into the soft, damp earth
as I search for what feels true.

The woods, the brush, the shifting veil of night—
they feel like home.

I sit.
And I wait.
I wait for the hunter in the undergrowth,
in the hush between breaths—
a willing prey to your sinister longing.

I crave the chase,
the takedown,
the surrender of control.
For there, in the familiar wild,
in the darkness I understand,
I can finally breathe.

©2025 Life in Chaos/M.Stiles
All rights reserved.

 

 

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