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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