My mouth is a muzzle made of bone.
Teeth jammed tight like prison bars.
Behind them, something rabid crouches,
foam at the lips, eyes bright with intent.
It does not want conversation.
It wants to tear language apart
and leave it bleeding.

Inside, the animal roars and thrashes,
scraping itself raw against my ribs,
speaking fluently in cruelty,
in endings that feel earned.
It hates restraint.
It hates the hand on its neck.

My tongue is pinned and shaking.
Breath saws in and out.
Silence cuts deeper than speech ever could.
Grace tastes like rust and restraint,
like swallowing glass
and calling it virtue.

So when I stand quiet,
understand what is happening.
This is not calm.
This is a cage under strain.
This is me holding the latch closed
with bloody hands,
keeping the animal inside
while the world stands inches away
from being bitten.

Penned by my hand on the 8th of Valnuary, in the year 993 AF.