LGBTQ+ Poem: Lycanthropy, by Delilah Chamberlain

The first full moon comes on my 16th birthday – clandestine
the Fates have a cruel sense of humor like that it’s funny
to them; the would-be-witch unaware of the were
coursing through bones that are ready to be broken
by the violence of a creature lurking under the skin
of a girl who barely knew how to do her eyeliner
there were no snapping jaws or ragged claws and bloodlust
is the hallmark of one broken-in to womanhood – the hair
the hair was the first sign

It sprouted from everywhere it wasn’t supposed to – creeping
like kudzu down legs that can’t run fast enough a coat of maggots
infesting the rotten corpse of the girl that never got to be – a razor
is no substitute for a scalpel but self-efficacy quickly transforms
to self-harm and aesthetic modification isn’t as permanent as an autopsy
what is alive will grow back even if it wishes it was dead
and hair is no exception

There’s nothing exceptional about living in fear of full moons
lunacy descending with the ascension of every lunar cycle
bones bend at all the wrong angles hip bones sharp and jutting
godless reminders gnashing like teeth snarling the message
that this girl is not as she’s intended to be – a temple
to the most unholy of deities: the bastardization
of the divine feminine

There is no goddess to beseech for freedom from this – Artemis
wouldn’t taint an arrow with the blood of one so unsightly
your misery is unworthy of being put out and you’re out
of concealer so what’s the point? Dry the tears and put a muzzle on it
no one wants to hear the girl who cried wolf especially when she’s crying
about her own damn reflection – don’t you know what they do
to girls like you who slip up and let themselves
be seen?

You want to be a woman? Crack your bones back into place
rip the hair from your flesh and blush your cheeks with the blood
performing humanity is a performance all the same and you are far
from the only grotesque creature in these woods – Howl
and they’ll keep you company until the sun returns – no one else
will hear; men never listen to anything less beastly than themselves
and even you could never best the beast of all beasts

You may be made a wolf by night and maybe
the raised hackles mistake you for a man but at least
you’ll never be one of them in the daylight.