Born silent, she stretched her body, feeling out her birth
and the free world,
her tiny bud of a mouth, yawning, and a slender forked
tongue awakening.
Fear and abomination written on faces of strangers,
silenced in the soft hiss of a mother’s love,
“They don’t see what I see my darling baby.”
Youth gave her ridicule and banishment, her peers desperate
to break her with hate ringing chants, and monikers of reptilian shame.
But her spirit wasn’t to be broken; her spine straight,
capable of slithering through the misguided views of children raised within
nests of small minds.
She’d return by sunset to her mother’s warm embrace and her
loving hiss,
“They don’t see what I see my darling girl.”
Eventually she became another face on the playground, as
attention was directed to a boy of small stature, reminiscent of a baby bird, its eyes still closed to the ways of the world.
He was pushed and pecked alive, his body curling into
itself, prepared for the push that would send him hurling through the air, to
unforgiving pavement.
As the children stood around him, their wicked thoughts
given voice and their laughter cackling in chorus, she quietly stalked her prey.
Upon them in a swift rise of her body, she spoke not a
word, just stared each foul mouthed child down, and as their mouths gaped in
maniacal laughter, she deftly snipped the tips of their tongues with a
singular
whip of her own.
E.A. O'Connell
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