i was always a portal  
for other creatures, 
even before agreeing to  
the bòkò’s pact. 
now, i am my own muse, 
choose which shape i want,  
craft a schedule  
of spirit-swallowing 
around convenience.  
sometimes shielding 
means stealing a baby  
into the never-  
to-be-seen-again,  
or, watching a man  
struggle to keep his  
last breath & writing  
my name over the doctor’s  
diagnosis in invisible ink. 
what i wouldn’t give  
to no longer worry 
about my skin salted  
by a vengeful villager
or hidden from me  
until after sunrise. 
strange how my  
inhumane passes 
for human  
more than i ever did  
when i still called  
myself pure.  
blanc, you wouldn’t  
understand. you crack 
& there is blood.  
i crack & you see  
black & think  
look at all this space.  
then fill it  
with so much  
imagination,  
i no longer have 
room to breathe.  
of course i had to 
change my shape.  
under moonlight  
i throw flowers  
on the grave of  
the human form,  
bend myself feral.  
i know you love  
writing books about  
everything interesting 
but yourself, so call me  
a compendium  
of carnivores,  
a consumption- 
grimoire. i dare you  
to read.