Jessica Swanson

Lycan

tonight, I shave off my fluffiest bits,
polish myself smooth,
yank the curtain closed,
praise the artificial light
because I can’t see the moon

what big teeth I had once—
all the better to eat you with
(unprofessional, yes
don’t worry
I’ve lost interest)

what strange marks are these,
skin overstretched, surely
taut over unforgiving bones
that have felt enough
tomorrow, I’ll cover them

I’ll look the part:
cotton innocence
with hands neatly folded
to hide the broken nails
and lips pulled back
into a smiled deemed gentle
by the ones who don’t know any better

and I’ve practiced what I’ll say
how to properly articulate myself
before an audience watching
in rapt attention
for some obvious mistake

I, Lepidopteran

I’m afraid of change, the smoke wavering
from the end of a black incense stick
it’s a sacred thing, a message from beyond,
a liminal existence,
not charred evidence of too much heat,
too much pressure to be something adored,
something sweet dredged up
from the comfort of my primordial goo
(habitually natural)
I’m afraid of what happens
when I shake the scales from my eyes,
see the fourth wonder for myself—
the world for what it is:
an endless procession of steps
towards an inevitable finiteness
and what I’m expected to be
I’ve already missed a few milestones along the way
and my crumpled wings are tired
from all this transformation
what is it I’m meant to carry
who cut the hole to let the light in
an unnecessary welfare check
I was fine until today,
blissfully half-formed and unaware
now I’m stuck in the in-between

Jessica Swanson is a librarian, a writer, and a tired millennial. She holds degrees in English Writing and Library and Information Science. Jessica also has a fondness for cats, cheese, and hot tea. She dabbles ominously in the creative arts. Follow her writing adventures on Twitter at Cooljazsheepie or on Instagram at everystupidstar.