The real me


a snarl

rips through the magnolia silence

of the office

tinged with longing.

a hooked claw


pushing through bleeding skin,

ripping, rending, stripping

muscle from tendon, from bone.

the others scatter

moaning in fear,

i am stronger,

i feel the strength

running through me,

and in me,

inside me.

my body is transformed, and

the beast is free,

tearing the paper mask that I wear


i throw back my head

and loose a howl,

unending howl

that echoes under the fluorescent lights.

in the beige and brown boxed-in rabbit run

they keep us in,

they don’t know

don’t know the real me

but they



A poem inspired by gothic werewolves and the transformation trope that occurs so often in YA books. 


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