Of course I should have predicted
that through skittish eyes you would see me
a monstrosity, freak of nature
out for your destruction,
necessary to ensure
my own satisfaction.

It makes for a good story, your
version of the truth. Distortion fails to dim
the gentle unfolding of hope
love’s long life-wish,
fierce flame your fear
could not extinguish.

You paint me in strokes of red,
speak of my heart blackened by confusion
resounding in my mind; yet,
a thousand voices
echo in your dreams
of unmade choices.

In the forest clearing I stand abandoned
and no one sees tears of clarity, nor cares,
nor dares to come close enough
to see the stricken smile
made more crooked by
your accusations vile.

Shall I relinquish what love remains
and beat my chest or bare my teeth? Shall I
rage at the lonely moon?
So long as I am beast,
I shall reach for beauty.
On this small love I’ll feast.