never love a wild thing

there is this house
i own this house
but it is not mine
it has been claimed by the wild horses
who wander in and out of it
through the day
as i rest or read
or clean my body
these strange beasts
they come and go
from this house i own
at a will only they comprehend
bringing with them many things
the moors, wind, eyelashes
and i often awake
to find broken glass
glittering in a new sunshine
and the smell of wild flowers
where a mirror once was
their wildness brings them
to my house
their running-free-ness brings them
running to this house
the thing in them that makes them wild horses
which is not the fact that they are horses
who were born in the wild
some wild horses are more wild horse than others
it is them
the ones with the wild horse spirit inside them
that would have made them wild horses
even if they weren’t
even if they were blind owls
that is what brings them to my house
in their blindness, even, seeking it out
and slamming their heads against the windows
over and over and over
until they are broken
and can never be closed again




"Never love a wild thing... you can't give your heart to a wild thing: the more you do, the stronger they get. Until they're strong enough to run into the woods. Or fly into a tree. Then a taller tree. Then the sky. That's how you'll end up... If you let yourself love a wild thing. You'll end up looking at the sky."

— Truman Capote, Breakfast at Tiffany's