Instinct unleashed. Kind nightmares. You are both the cage and the thing that gnaws through it. And somehow, impossibly, that is how you stay human.
Unleashed instinct is not violence. Violence is a language. This is the silence before the first word. This is the wolf remembering it never needed the pack— only the dark, only the rabbit’s last heartbeat, only the mercy of not having to choose. instinct unleashed kind nightmares
At three a.m., the leash becomes a suggestion. Not a restraint—a ribbon. And the thing beneath the floorboards stops pretending to be the furnace. It remembers it has teeth. Not for chewing. For tasting the shape of consequence. Instinct unleashed
They call it instinct—that low, humming wire strung between the ribs. Not the roar. Not the fang. Something quieter. Something worse. And somehow, impossibly, that is how you stay human
So I sit on the floor of the cage at dawn. The lock clicks. Imaginary. The sun rises. Real. And I wonder: What if the monster wasn’t the one who broke free? What if the monster was the one who stayed inside— and called it love?
And here is the deep cut: the nightmares are kind because they never lie. They do not promise safety. They promise truth . That you could bite. That you could run. That the door was never locked— you just liked the sound of the key turning in your imagination.