A.

What makes a monster?

Whether having hooves or claws?
Or the mere look in their eyes?

The story’s been told. Heroes know
what becomes of monsters.

Nobody wants to believe
that humans are monstrous.


B.

When you sink your teeth into my soul,
my emotions
haunt me like ghosts-

Wounds alive,
invisible

to those who don’t believe
in magic,

on a loop,
tangible,

screaming to
but one who’ll listen,

passing on their melancholy,
heavy and cold. 


C.

I wonder if all depressed 
species rage at night, lash out in dreams,

or if I am more alone than I know-
as alone as I seem.


D.

Unpleasant thoughts
that it takes a purple marker
and a well-placed white board
for me to turn to dust alone.

I am not numb to the embarrassment of pain,
the weight of sad words, wounds openly on display,

but alas, I am vulnerable,
and ghosts? Ever friendly.
And I would make my tale visible 
to any kind soul who wanted me to,

but those humans are even more rare
than the fabled ones. The story’s been told. 

No one wants to believe
that humans are monstrous.