monster.

take your palette, child,

draw me a monster.

paint it,

scribble it,

hand it a knife.

draw me, child,

draw me a monster.

then tell me,

why is it a monster?

oh dear.

it has fangs.

it has horns.

it has claws.

it has fur all over.

oh dear, it even has a

bloody scar!

but tell me, child,

why do these make it

a monster?

tell me, child,

why is it a monster?

is it because its fangs are too sharp?

is it because its eyes are bloodshot?

is it because its claws are too big?

but my dear,

the death it will give you,

is a blessing.

there is no pain—

you are dead,

dead outside and inside.

but tell me, child,

why is it a monster?

take your memories, mother,

draw me a monster.

paint it,

scribble it,

hand it a smile.

draw yourself, mother,

draw me a monster.

then tell me,

why is it a monster?

oh dear.

it has eyes like us.

it has lips like us.

it has hair like us.

oh mother silly,

i told you to draw me

a monster,

yet you have drawn me

a human!

but tell me, mother,

why is it a monster?

is it because its words could

rip you apart?

is it because you could burn

in the flames of its love?

is it because it could be your supernova?

is it because your blood is

its life-source?

is it because you could drown in

the constellations in its eyes?

but it has no fangs.

it has no claws.

it does not have fur all over

its body.

it doesn’t snarl,

it doesn’t growl.

it doesn’t have a bloody scar.

tell me, mother,

how is it a monster?

is it because its claws are deep inside?

is it because it will tear you apart once

you are close enough?

is it because you sometimes forget

it has horns,

and that, mother dear,

is when you are cursed?

draw me, mother,

draw me a monster.

you have drawn, mother,

you have drawn me a human.

why, mother,

w h y  i s  i t  a  m o n s t e r ?