I feel willowy and weak. I want my stride to be strong and confident and decisive like I know it can be.
But oh, he’s stopping me, dragging me, making my legs bow. Making my heartbeat stutter and quake.
I know the way.
Willow is flexible, but willow is strong.
Dusty stone underfoot, the canvas shades billowing overhead; I peek between the flapping sheets out to the sparkling cool of the night sky above.
Oh he’s dragging me still.
Breathing his hot breath over my ear and through my hair.
Tell me I’m a fool, and I start to be that fool. My truth and my own faith are fragile.
We are lost.
It is a beautiful, chaotic labyrinth of corners and corridors and dead ends and we are somewhere deep in it’s heart.
Me and this lion upon my back.
His claws are lazy but sharp and they are sinking into me. Into my skin.
He is growling through me,
He is roaring laughter at me.
This is my own unique burden and I have taken him from the wild and I have chosen to carry him.
Through this despairing maze, round and round and round and round and round and round we spiral.
And then I find it. The route, the exit.
I find the solution.
I find our den.
And he laughs his ferocious laugh.
As we lie together I feel my monster burbling in careless sleep, and I can feel the weight of my ribcage softly pressing on my heart. My stomach is tumbling with sickness and I am shaking with the hopelessness of my ridiculous captivity.
I hate him.
And yet all I want to do is watch him in his majestic sleep.