Monsters Scream Too

They were not born monsters beneath the moon,
nor cursed by their own will.
Someone wrote their names into the shadows
before they ever learned to walk.

They gave them fangs to make us frightened,
claws to teach us how to hate,
but no one asked about the wounds
that forced them to mutate.

The monster does not always live in the forest,
nor sleep beneath an ancient house;
sometimes it wears a suit and a smile,
signing our condemnations from behind a desk.

Sometimes the creature we fear
is only a mirror against our skin,
a truth screaming in silence
that we would rather never see.

Frankenstein was not merely a corpse,
but abandonment and creation;
a being condemned for his appearance,
for failing to fit our imagination.

Perhaps that is why we invent horrors:
to speak of everything that hurts,
to dress our truths in blood
when society refuses to let them surface.

Because fear can rebel too,
and darkness can reveal
that some monsters were born from wounds
others simply chose to ignore.

So when you hear a scream
disappearing into the darkness,
do not ask first who the monster is.

Ask yourself
who turned it into one.

— newgirldark