Here you go again, running from the villagers
with their torches and pitchforks.
You thought you finally fit in.
You filed down your neck-bolts,
got rid of your high-waters.
You watched Oprah, kept a dream diary,
a gratitude journal, pictures of your thinner self
on the fridge. You tried to keep your need
for electricity minimized: licking the outlets,
rubbing your hair with a balloon for just a crackle.
It took years of practicing the right laugh.
You did your best. Married up.
Got a job teaching ESL. Now and then,
a grunt would slip and
crickets crickets crickets.
Every morning, the affirmations,
the meditation, the positive thinking.
You longed for lightning and rain.
You did everything right to escape
the old ways of staring into the well.
People liked you. You were funny.
But one day you got caught
eating flies in the faculty lounge
and soon the rumors started.
You missed being the girl
who loved her square head,
touched her thick-stitched scars like Braille—
so you stopped hiding your green
undertones with foundation.
The villagers yell, Kill her!
Kill the monster! as you barrel
through the woods, nettles whip
your ankles as you soar over logs
in your clodhoppers. You’re filled
with the old familiar joy of being
outcast and incredible.