Wild Things
That house was never a home.
Windows and doors
real wood floors
it turns out
those aren’t the things that really keep us safe.
Give me a snowy night.
A summer day where the trees sway
in the canyon breeze.
I wished it would blow me away and I could fly.
Anywhere but that house.
One winter
the moose made a bed
where I longed to lay my head
out on our porch.
A bed of snow
on boards below
that was safer and warmer than my own.
My comforter never really comforted me.
Miles and miles of hiking trails
wishing for paws and a tail
so that I would never have to go
inside that house again.
So I never had to leave the places that I really felt at home.
If wood and stone
make up a home
why was it not okay for me to live
in the woods outside instead?
If civilized living is walking on pins
every time the father walks in
the house,
I don’t want to be civilized anymore.
I want to be where the wild things are.
Because deep down I am a wild thing.
Hear me sing
my battle cry from the mountaintop.
I don’t need you anymore.
I never again want to hide my scars.
I’ll show them to the stars
and the moon and the sun.
Soon they’ll be seen by everyone.
And every scratch came from you.
No matter how much you deny it.
I hope your soul goes up in flame
every time you hear my name.
You never intended to buy a home.
You didn’t want your wild things to roam
until you got bored with them
and abandoned your zoo.
You kicked us wild things out
and replaced us with new, exotic things that you imported.
Could it be that we were too
adapted and stopped needing you?
That month I lost my home.
The bed of snow,
the breezes and the trees I know.
All of them are owned by someone else now.
You lost control of your new exotic things. You forgot they can bite back.
Now you long for the day
when your first wild things would say
“I’m home!”
as we got back from work and school.
What you refuse to see
was that in order to keep me
you had to feed me and keep me warm.
And you still ask why I never come back home.
But that house was never a home.
It was never my home at all.
Even though it had doors and windows
and real wood floors and walls.
I was nurtured by the sky and breeze
and water and pebbles and grass and trees.
They were more of a family
than you ever were to me.
So once you let your wild things go
you didn’t know
how fast and far we would run
just to get away from you.
And you will never see us again.
Not in sunshine, frost, or rain.
Not in the fog or wind or snow
because we were not born to be your pets.
We’ve always been wild things, and wild things we will always be.
Let the wild rumpus start.