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WORDS

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The Beast

 
 

I am a monster.

I am like a villain from a fairytale.

When I'm hungry, I get angry. When I'm tired, I get mean. It's when I'm feeling the pings of envy that I twist and turn into my worst form, a werewolf filled with hot air, my skin stretched to fit the feelings of despair, jealousy, and remorse.

 

A beast, really. Long hairs grow from my brow, my fingers and toes, speckling my legs in a way that glimmers in the light. These hairs cover my head like a lion, untamed and wild, perpetually twisted in a nest.

Heat radiates from my skin, as if escaping from my gatekeeper pores. In the cold, this leaves me trembling, and in the hot heat, it leaves me dripping and wet, sweat and oil pouring out of me like lava.

Crooked teeth fill my crooked grin while oil shines upon my face. They chomp as I eat, large enough to clink against every utensil, every glass used to feed and quench. 

Let it be known that it's there where my weaknesses lie.

Sugar and a crushed ego.

I'm a sensitive monster, ingesting every word and non-word, taking it in and using it against myself. A simple critique or a raging insult all feel the same to me, but the worst is complete invisibility. Evolution has not shaken the ego from me, the need to be seen, really seen, and really important. If I am not acknowledged for even the tiniest grain of my worth, I slowly
c
   r
     u
        m   
             b
                 l
                    e
into soft-colored dust easily blown away into the wind.