I am not the girl that you bring home to meet mother
I’m a leech.
I’m a leper.
The thing under your bed.
I am not the woman you walk down the aisle.
I never did look good in white.
Something about it shows the shadows underneath.
Brightens the scars.
Highlights the teeth.
I am not the mother that holds you close.
My arms are far too sharp.
Bones far too brittle.
It’s in the smile.
Behind my eyes.
There is a wolf howling within.
Clawing to get out.