Skinwalker
I once liked your pale skin and skinny frame,
thought you were close to what I wanted to be:
an unsullied prologue chapter
before the real story begins.
Truth was, it wasn’t something to desire—
your washed-out complexion from hiding in shadows,
a skinny frame because your body
was never introduced to anything of substance.
No original thought authored,
seeking out and discrediting the people you’ve colonized for resources.
Take the muscles, the fat, the gallons upon gallons of blood.
Slice and dice the flesh of others to sew onto yourself.
Go ahead—adorn yourself with the souvenirs of victims.
Show off the pearls of their pain to pass as your own.
Makes you so much more interesting, doesn’t it?
More so than the plain skeleton of canvas you’ve left spotless—
too scared to start your own piece
while spoiling the works of others.
Pitying you for the scars
you endured for the price of mutating yourself to mimic others.
Those who have not yet met you will flock, as I once did—
impressed by your grotesque accessories,
entranced by the paper-thin illusion of depth you present.
But soon, before it’s too late,
they too will be mugged by you,
left with only a body sucked dry and left to die.
Screaming underwater,
I beg for you to stop—
spare the girls who don’t know what’s to come.
You turn around,
look me down on my bare knees pleading for mercy.
And what did you say?
"I wouldn’t have done that, honestly,
had I not had feelings for you, sort of randomly.
So thanks to you."
That’s you.
A habitual taker.
A pathological eater.
Pull the chair out from under me,
then sit upon the feast I’ve made for myself.
Shove your face with the food I prepared.
Devour everything without care—
with hands that are dirty and bare.
Drunk and delirious on my creation,
convincing yourself it’s yours,
high on self-congratulation masturbation.