This species (I) dies (die) in captivity,

They (I) need star-fresh air,

Moist soil,

Wizened bark under (my) calloused fingers.

—–

They (I) require the space to feel without walls of doubt,

Are (am) they (I) worthy?

Are (am) they (I) real?

—–

Without color they (I) crumble,

Wasted on the listless grayity of everyday life,

Hand them (me) a pencil and paint brush,

Return to them (me) their (my) world.

—–

Let go of their (my) hands,

Allow them (me) to beat back the silence with both fists,

To fill it with song,

To bleed because that is what humans do,

Do not bar their (my) personhood,

It is an easy way to get bitten.

—–

People (I) do not belong in captivity,

We (I) are (am) part of the animals,

The forest calls and the mountains beg and the ocean welcomes,

Let them (me) return to that messy world,

Where fakery doesn’t mean words but teeth,

Bloody with survival,

Where a path isn’t guarded with a gate,

But only a well worn track to home,

Let them (me) use their (my) legs and lungs,

And run to it.