I study rooms like instructions.
Take notes on tone.
On timing.
On what makes people stay.

I say what I need.
Then I say it nicer.
Then I say it like a question.
Then I say it like I’m apologizing for existing.
Then I stop saying it.

Somewhere in there,
the floor learns my weight.

I’m wrung out like a towel over a sink,
twisted until something gives.
Water runs.
Something essential goes with it.

Still damp.
Always damp.
No matter how long I’m left hanging.

I memorize reactions.
Learn which parts of me cause storms.
Learn which parts of me make doors lock.

So I fold myself smaller.
Quieter.
Easier to keep.

Hands say stay.
Patterns say behave.

I behave.

They keep their hands on me like I’m clay,
like I exist to be corrected.
I learn my shape through their approval.

I’m told to sit.
I sit.
Told to stay.
I stay.

Roll over.
I learn.

The paw command takes longer—
punishment arrives faster than understanding.
Praise tastes like sugar and restraint.

They don’t raise their voice.
They don’t have to.
The rules live in my body now.

I learn the difference between being good
and being quiet.
I learn which tricks keep me fed.

I learn to wag without being asked.
I learn to flinch before the leash tightens.
I learn to thank the hand that holds it.

They say a shark only grows as big as its tank.
So they taught me to thank the glass.
To call the walls protection.
To call the limit home.

Conditioned to be grateful for my space.
For my portion of water.
For the shape they decided I could be.

They gave me a tank and called it generosity.
Said the walls were love.
Said the ceiling was enough.

Conditioned to thank the restraint.
To defend the size of my cage.
To confuse survival with privilege.

They trained me to fit.
To call the glass safety.
To thank them for the limits.

So I learned to grow politely.
Learned to call the walls mercy.
Learned to stop before I touched them.

Conditioned to be grateful for the water—
even when it is only enough
to survive in.

Every room takes something.
Every person rearranges what’s left.

I am a house furnished by others.

They chose the fixtures.
Hung the paintings.
Decided which walls could hold weight
and which ones were only for looking.

They picked the couch I learned to sink into.
The rugs I learned to soften my steps for.
They taught me where to sit.
What not to touch.
Which doors were decorative.

They called it a home.
They called it tasteful.
They called it good for me.

And here I am,
dressed and built the way they made me,
still on my hands and knees,
cleaning the floors of this place.

Left to clean up the mess
of the people who furnished me.
Left to pick apart the pieces
and put them back together somehow—

but they didn’t leave glue in this house.
No tape.
No binding agent.

Just careful arrangements
and the expectation that I maintain them.

Some rooms I’ve never entered.
Some windows don’t open.

Still, I’m told it’s beautiful in here.

Sometimes I feel the muzzle.

Until one day
the body remembers it is an animal.

And something in me snaps.

Not because I was mistreated.
Because I was trained.

Because even the most obedient things
eventually bite
when they remember what teeth are for.

The door is open.
But the leash is in my head.

Wash.
Rinse.
Repeat.