There is an animal beneath the skin,
soft-footed and silent.
It does not howl or claw;
it listens,
ears tuned to the pulse
of roots moving underground.
It does not speak our language,
but it hums to the rhythm
of wind slipping through leaves,
to the measured breath of the ocean
meeting the shore.
When you sit still enough,
you can feel it stir:
a gentle shifting in your chest,
a reminder of what you once knew—
the scent of rain before it falls,
the way the earth holds you
even when you forget its name.
It is patient,
this quiet creature,
its heartbeat slow and steady,
a tether to a time
when nothing needed to be said
to be understood.
But it waits,
not for anger,
not for hunger,
but for the moment
when stillness becomes unbearable—
when the weight of silence cracks
and the soft becomes sharp.
One day, it will claw its way free,
not with violence,
but with certainty,
a slow emergence from the dark.
You will feel it rise,
not as a battle,
but as a birth.
It will stand, uncoiling,
and you will find yourself
on your knees,
pressing your face to the ground,
finally remembering
what it means
to belong.
It listens when we forget to, carries the wisdom of earth and root. When it rises, it does not roar; it reminds us—gently, fiercely—of the wild truths we buried beneath our names.
