I've known, ever since mother, the river, and the burlap bag,
that I mightn't be accepted by all.
When I look at you, I cannot blink.
Do you find my stare unsettling? It is where love starts.
More importantly, it establishes my link with the Moon.
So. We have been together at last.
Now you know they don't stay sheathed, even in an embrace.
I'm sorry. But not. Better go clean up.
Some say I can't be trusted; such a lie.
Wave a fish in front of my face and your data will never vary.
By the way, though, we're through.
Reader, behold me in my solitude.
I screech at the top of my lungs, position myself pitifully in the rain
beyond your sliding door, but open it and I'll walk away.
We, the deformed, are beautiful. Independent. Unique.
So, reader, why this charade, this posturing for your attention?
We do not hunger--there are songbirds.
Cardboard boxes abound.
What we want is simple, and useless:
Smile, reader, and free us to abandon you.
Smile, freak, and let us ponder how you do.
for Music With Meow at Real Toads.