The hurt child will bite you. The hurt child will turn into a fearsome creature and bite you where you stand. The hurt child will grow a skin over the wound you have given it —or not given, because the wound is not a gift, a gift is accepted freely, and the child had no choice. It will grow a skin over the wound, the hoarded wound, the heirloom wound you have pried out of yourself like a bullet and implanted in its flesh— a skin a hide a pelt a scalded rind, and sharp fish teeth like a warped baby's— and it will bite you and you will cry foul as is your habit and there will be a fight because you'll take the fight out of the box labelled Fights you keep so carefully stored against emergencies, and this is one, and the hurt child will lose the fight and it will go lurching off into the suburbs, and it will cause panice in drugstores and havoc among the barbecues and they will say Help help a monster and it will get into the news and it will be hunted with dogs, and it will leave a trail of hair, fur, scales, and baby teeth, and tears from where it has been ripped by broken glass and such and it will hide in culverts in toolsheds, under shrubs, licking its wound, its rage, the rage you gave it and it will drag itself to the well the lake the stream the reservoir because it is thirsty because it is monstrous with its raging thirst which looks like spines all over it and the dogs and the hunters will find it and it will stand at bay and howl about injustices and it will be torn open and they will eat its heart and everyone will cheer, Thank god that's over! And its blood will seep into the water and you will drink it every day.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
The hurt child will turn
into a fearsome creature
and bite you where you stand.
The hurt child will grow a skin
over the wound you have given it
—or not given, because the wound
is not a gift, a gift is accepted
freely, and the child had no choice.
It will grow a skin over the wound,
the hoarded wound, the heirloom wound
you have pried out of yourself like a bullet
and implanted in its flesh—
a skin a hide a pelt
a scalded rind,
and sharp fish teeth
like a warped baby's—
and it will bite you
and you will cry foul
as is your habit
and there will be a fight
because you'll take the fight out of the box
labelled Fights you keep so carefully stored
against emergencies, and this is one,
and the hurt child will lose the fight
and it will go lurching off
into the suburbs, and it will cause
panice in drugstores and havoc
among the barbecues
and they will say Help help a monster
and it will get into the news
and it will be hunted
with dogs, and it will leave a trail
of hair, fur, scales, and baby teeth, and tears
from where it has been ripped
by broken glass and such
and it will hide in culverts
in toolsheds, under shrubs,
licking its wound, its rage,
the rage you gave it
and it will drag itself to the well
the lake the stream the reservoir
because it is thirsty
because it is monstrous
with its raging thirst
which looks like spines all over it
and the dogs and the hunters will find it
and it will stand at bay
and howl about injustices
and it will be torn open
and they will eat its heart
and everyone will cheer,
Thank god that's over!
And its blood will seep into the water
and you will drink it every day.
- Margaret Atwood, The hurt child