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A Poem: Lullaby for the Beast (or Burn Survivor's Anthem) 

I am the girl who makes children scream
(unintentionally, of course)

I interrupt their flawless dreams

as I enter the playground
a tempest on their pageant,
a centipede in their ice cream.

I am the freak without a cage.
I make:
perverts masturbate,
doctors confused,
an audience drool,
cameras break

Who hasn't felt sunlight in decades
as I crawl out of my cave
a lonely ghost with undone business
to deliver notes in chains.

They run for their normality,
shriek and hide,
cringe in disgust,
when I wear a dress on a summer day.

In fear of life under my skin, they say
"A monster she-wolf!
Scarred walking dead!"
A witch, escaped the stake,
in search of a special ingredient:
blood-thirsty, fanged, looking for love

I never mind being this way
(deformed, my melted clump of clay)
What matters most—a spirit untouched,
free to float invincibly,
to slow dance with invisible men,
to serenade those missing tongues:
a lullaby for the beast
and all the pregnant ones.

Speaking of...

  • A poem by Dina Peone.


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