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.