I feel like a fairy tale trope:
the witch who envies the princess,
the beast who yearns for human touch.
It takes time to need only your own skin,
to not circle outside the walls of the castle
and wonder why you cannot feast at the table.
But the royal family eats my kin in their great hall.
Why would I want to betray my own heart
to win the hand of a prince on my smooth pelt?
I am changeling, werebeast, monster.
No love will make me human. The choice
is to feel my clawed embrace or love softer things.
My smile embraces my fangs; I see best in the dark.
I will not stay, wishing; I need no distant star.
I will revel in the night with other strange hearts.