​

​​​

Caged

​

Inside. There was an album about that once, made by a musician who liked to make everybody laugh. I don’t see anyone laughing. I don’t see anyone at all. My house is empty like the street outside my window, and the cars on its shoulders. Aren’t cars supposed to move? If beasts of metal are still beasts, shouldn’t they be alive on the dead pavement, dancing between rows of dead winter trees? It looks like they’re hibernating beneath a layer of snow. Laying still like a bear in a cave. But bears don’t sleep all winter – that was a lie we were told. So why do the cars not move? Are they dead?

 

Inside. My head is two bears. Normally people say wolves, but wolves do not hibernate. I haven't left my den in weeks. I haven’t left my head in longer. Usually there are people to distract me from myself, companionship like peanut butter to get the attention of one of my bears. But people are inside, so my bears are fighting like wolves. It would look like playing if it didn't hurt. Now I want peanut butter, and my wolf-bears want companionship… or is it the other way around? Either way I can’t get it, because that would mean being outside, and I am not.

 

Inside. A house with too many walls. That’s all I have left. Too many rooms. Too few things to use them for. Why call it a living room if I hardly live in it? A family room if I have no family. A bathroom if I no longer bathe. They are just rooms now. Spaces. I use them as I please. 

 

Inside. Like an animal at the zoo, pacing out of habit. Over and over and over and over and over and… when do motions become habits? When are habits a sign of insanity? I don’t feel insane. Does anybody ever? I wish I had someone here to tell me, but the winds only speak in howls, and my bears only grunt as I poke them in their cage of bone. Sometimes I grunt back. They don’t understand, but they have stopped fighting. Now they lay there, like they’re hibernating in their den that is me.

 

Inside. The bears have stopped talking in their cage. No more grunts. No more movement. They look like cars parked on the shoulder of an empty street. I miss them. They were my friends.

 

Inside. I have an urge. I want to leave. I need to leave. It’s not safe yet, but I can’t keep looking at the bears. Everything is quiet. Let me out. Let me out. Please let me out.

 

Inside. I found a new sheath for my kitchen knife. My mom got it for me as a present before we were inside. I haven’t used it in a long time. Its blade looks like the feather of a bird.

 

Outside. My body is red. My floor is red. I am red. My bears are free but they do not escape. Why won’t they go? Do they not understand they can run? Do they not understand that it’s over? I grunt at them. Isn’t this what they wanted? Like liars they lie still. I find myself lying too. My legs are weak, I am weak. I grunt again but it is not for the bears. I’m tired. Tired of being alone. Tired of watching an empty street. Tired of pacing in my cage. Tired of inside. My eyes begin to close. Darkness surrounds me.

 I see my bears in their broken cage.