Savage by Yolanda Olson

I never did care for the term freak.
I’ve been called a monster by small children, a devil by their parents, and a savage by anyone that doesn’t understand the real me.

If real beauty is found on this inside, then why does being born with ectrodactyly defined me?
Why can no one see past the deformity bestowed upon me by fate?
I used to be a good man a long time ago when I didn’t know the difference.
When performing for scraps from the tables of others didn’t bother me.
Night after night of being stared at and made fun of by those that think I can’t hear them or see the scorn in their eyes has defiled any of the good that once dwelled within.

Now I’m a sinner born of the fires of discontent and hatred that I feel for each and every person that comes through the tents to gawk at me—at us.
I choose to be the man I am now because this is what they’ve made me into.
And so have you.
It’s why you’re here isn’t it?
To look at me, wonder if I’m real or if I’m worth the few dollars you paid to see me?
You’ve come for the show too, haven’t you?
Don’t worry.
I’ll make sure that when the curtains are drawn back, you’ll never forget the day you came face to face with me.
I’ll be waiting.