Not a metaphor. Not a dream I’m still shaking off. A real tiger—shoulder-high, amber-eyed, with paws the size of dinner plates resting on my wool rug. Its stripes ripple when it breathes.
There’s a tiger in my room.
In the morning, it will be gone. No paw prints. No scratch marks. Just the faint smell of dust and sun, and a single orange hair on my pillow. tiger in my room
The tiger turns its head. For a second, its gaze pins me—not with hunger, but with patience. As if it’s been waiting for me to stop running from something. As if it’s not the intruder. I am the one who forgot I belonged here, in this room, with this impossible animal. Not a metaphor