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On Becoming The Monsters MAG
I remember October nights
spent swallowing apple seeds and
picking pumpkins. We wore the chilled air
like a fitted black dress, and convinced
ourselves that the dying leaves didn't mirror
our decaying consciences. Children told stories
of black cats and witches, but the only
true horror was the way we treated ourselves.
One slash on the wrist for every candy corn ingested
because we hated the way we didn't resemble
the skeletons hanging on every door.
“You look dead.” They told us,
and we laughed because that was the goal.
Adults and kids alike whispered about the
two girls with protruding bones and sunken
eyes, actual zombies in the flesh.
We never wanted it to go this far, but there
wasn't such a thing as halfway with us.
Build a coffin and declare us gone,
I guess we'll always be stuck in the cornfields.