I know what it is to be Cain

To be the ugly one, hairless, spineless Cain

Passed over

Eyes sliding right off you

Right over to your perfect brother

He and I shared a womb

Twins, born the same day

But from birth I was twisted and pained

Screaming from a pit within me

Reflux burning my throat as I cried

There was something ugly burning within my gut from the moment I entered this world

But my sinless brother, with his shining flaxen hair,

He learned his words first, while I screamed

He walked first, dancing circles around me

But even as I am held up by the scruff of my neck,

As they yell

why can’t you be like him why can’t you be good why can’t you be good like your

Brother,

I cannot hate him

The golden child is called golden for a reason

Even if it hurts to stand beside him, knowing how we two look

With one shining clean slate,

And one filth ridden sinner

I will still carry him upon my back

He isn’t heavy

He’s my brother

I am his keeper

And he is mine

I sit still and silent, perched atop the wide white bathroom counter,

Feet in the sink

Back hunched,

Eyes wide wide open in a way that makes me avoid looking in the mirror.

I am six, ten, fourteen, eighteen, twenty two.

And I am always here, perched on the bathroom counter in my parents house.

I can sit perfectly silent for hours, picking my skin apart

Cell by cell,

With searching fingers and searching eyes

Determined to pick and pluck and pinch and pull the filth out.

Picking pimples, pus and pock.

A gargoyle, sitting inside the silent church instead of above it.

My pristine, perfect pulpit

Of a silent, white bathroom.

Pristine, except for whatever this dirt is inside me

I run my tweezer-finger tips all over all over all over

My skin, feeling before seeing the imperfection, the deformity, the disruption of order.

I know, I know,

If I could just leave it be then the blemish would heal, and by trying to fix the fault I’m only making it worse,

Making it redder, making it weep, making it scar.

But I can’t

Don’t you see I *can’t leave it alone.*

Over and over I run my fingertips over myself

Meticulously hunting any irregularity.

Gargoyles are made to protect churches

But I think they made me wrong.

Because all I can do for hours and hours and hours on end

Is pick at each little imperfection

Like it’s my purpose, as if the picking will protect me from whatever lies outside my bathroom chamber-church.

They say cleanliness is next to godliness,

So I must make my skin clean

By scouring and scarring away that foul matter, the muck I pull out of the microscopic pores across my person.

Maybe God does not actually care if I am clean,

*He* made me of dust and dirt.

But I care

I care.

Oh how cruel a god he is,

He made me with these searching fingers,

Made for ferreting out the filth.

He made me to never be clean,

And worse yet,

He made me to never feel it either.

There is a monstrous desire in me

I feel it bubble up from deep within

Sickly and needy and base

Its pale yellow ichor clouds my eyes

And I know if you were to see this

Infection bleed from me

You would be disgusted

I have long been denied the love I was promised

I was assured what was given would be returned in equal measure

But instead I have poured out all I can

Worked fingers to the bone

Bones that were never mine

Bones that were stolen from graves of those who might’ve felt what I crave

Maybe that is why I have such need

For I carry within me the yearning of those

Who’s bodies created mine

Have I not done what was asked?

His sin against god is what made me

He made me and yet he denies me?

I did not ask to be birthed in this foul manner!

I awoke upon his table and saw the blasphemous,

rapturous joy in his eyes dissolve into

Horror

Horror

Horror

Am I that horrifying?

He made me to be beautiful

I am called monster

Monster

Monster over and over again

Every time the story is retold

And every time I am naught but a

Beast for his attempt to defeat

But what of you?

Haven’t you longed for love and compassion?

And upon being denied this base need sworn revenge upon your creator?

Every rendition I am made

Not born

Made

Of grave-robbed parts and ink and pen and plans of greatness

In some I may only grunt and scream and moan

Like an animal

And in others I speak more soulfully than the

Wretched scientist

Who took it upon himself to drag me bloody and raw into this world

I want to scream

I want to wail

I have been denied so long

Denied love

Denied community

Denied the titular role

They call me his name, you know

As if I had no identity outside of him?

Do I?

All I am known for is my creator

He created me and then robbed me of any life outside of his orbit

Now you see? Why these hands must bring him to slaughter?

How is it that he could easily accept me

Easily apologize and ask forgiveness

And yet he doesn’t?

I kill him not so that I can have peace after

But so that I may find peace in the moment

Of violence against my creator

You think that given the chance

You too wouldn’t wring life from the throat of your creator?

What happens after is meaningless

The pages have stopped and there is nothing left but the back cover

Maybe you will forgive me now

For my hideous frame,

For my yellowed eyes and my tightly bound skin,

For my violent hands

For now as long as I exist

The dark bubbling hate and pain will continue to writhe within my guts

After all, I was never given a chance

I will always be known as

Frankenstein’s Monster