Cryptid woman

Poetry

Lindsey Johnson

There are many

Pretty girls

Of which I

Am not one.

I have an image in my head

Which comes from the phantom

Mirror I place

In front of the pretty ones.

In it I am green

Moss grows on my arms

And mold on my teeth

A smile unseemly.

I speak with volume

Unfathomable to their

Delicate ears

Of Brie.

I step

And shake the ground

Footprint in my wake

Big-footed bitch-witch:

The cryptid woman,

I think they might call me

Where I can’t hear.

It is the overwhelm

Of the intersection

Of where I want to be

And what kind of a thing

I really am.

Hairy-pussied

Big-footed

Big, strong, bitch of a

Thing.