I Slept with the Dog that Mauled Me

I never named it. Didn’t cage it. Didn’t beg. Just stood while it tested my throat with eyes that didn’t blink. The first time it licked my knuckle, I didn’t move.

It didn’t crawl in.
It was already there.
Starving.
Tail thudding against bone.

Didn’t bark.
Didn’t whine.
It waited.

Lurking behind my ribs
like it had been chained up
by someone with my face.

Every sound pulled a snarl.
Every quiet moment
came with teeth.

I fed it
from the same hand
I used to cover my mouth
when crying got too loud.

It bit anyway.
Ripped through my sleep,
clamped down when I kissed,
panted through every panic
like it wanted me breathless.

I never named it.
Didn’t cage it.
Didn’t beg.

Just stood
while it tested my throat
with eyes that didn’t blink.

The first time it licked my knuckle,
I didn’t move.

The second time,
I opened my palm.

It came slower after that.
Still growling.
Still pissing on my calm.

But it didn’t bite
when I got close.

Now it watches.
Still ready to snap.
Still twitching
at the wrong kind of silence.

But it knows
I won’t run.

And that’s how
my nervous system
learned
to stay.

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