I know that I’m a freak.
I know that.
Do you think that I could forget with people telling me every day?
They call me freak. Freankenstein. Monster.
I’m sorry that the car hit me. I’m sorry that the doctors weren’t concerned with beauty when they saved my life. I am a monster, but I’m not one of the dangerous variety.
There are plenty who are, though. I’m talking about the monsters who hide in sheep’s clothing and then rip out with snapping teeth.
The monsters who hide curled up in a beautiful skin. People pass monsters every day. They eat with them, laugh with them, sit in their laps and let their teeth near their throats.
They smile and laugh and pull people in with dancing green eyes. They’re wolves, they’re sharks, and make no mistake, there’s blood in the water. Most people don’t see what they are under their porcelain masks and red lips.
They just see innocent brown eyes and a buffed handsme dude. They don’t see the scales and claws that they show me. They call me the monster, but monsters like me only look the part, and I prefer that to the false facades and double-edged words.
I’m an honest monster. I bare my scars and my breaks and let people see what I am.
No lies, no false fronts. I am what I appear to be. Others hide their pain and insecurities behind masks and barbs. They hide their scars by making others bleed.
And for that, I pity them.