The cage door has no lock. I know this because I checked it a thousand times, running my fingers over the seam where the iron kisses the air. It is not rusted shut. It is not welded. It simply waits . And so do I.
They call it instinct—that low, humming wire strung between the ribs. Not the roar. Not the fang. Something quieter. Something worse. instinct unleashed kind nightmares
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. The cage door has no lock
These are the kind nightmares. The ones that tuck you in before they drown you. The ones that smile with your mother’s mouth and say, “You’ve always wanted to know what happens next.” It is not welded
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.