soul animal.

she will not make a home, on the surface of things. 

she stays out of sight, and out of reach.

neither god nor human (though made from the stuff of both of them) 

she lives, solitary (in hiding)—bowed head and quiet eyes, a nun in a convent. 

she is trained (she says muzzled)--into long, unnatural quiet. 

she comes late to the party—when she comes to the party at all. 

she makes an appearance, (a cameo)—in moments of joy, and of ecstasy.

then slinks back into the hole in the bottom of you, sleeping through her days, a creature of shadows. 

until that day comes, when you fall (or jump) off the wall, the sick sound of your outside’s undoing, your insides spilling.

it is then—and only then—you know who and what she is:

your soul is an animal. 

you know this (because you hear her scream)

you know this (because you feel her bleed)

you didn’t know she was alive, until you felt her life slip through you.

she howls through your wounds, as breakable as your skin—

she is after all, only an animal.

she has no reasons.  

she was no creature of reason, to begin with.

until out of nowhere, you feel her rattle in your belly. 

she starts her slow rising, grit and bone and instinct. 

she needs no reasons (to go on). 

She needs no logic (to fight back). 

She needs no will (to survive).

she may yet go (but not go quietly).

she is mortal—she can be killed.

but she’s not dead yet, because she decided not to be.

she claws her way back, without your consent.  

she was what she was and she is what she is.

she is, after all--an animal.