Metamorph (or My Defense Against the Dark Arts #45)

 

I only noticed it when it was already grown thick enough to make my usual clothes unwearable,

uncomfortable.

Disgusted and fascinated both,

I ran an apprehensive hand across my midriff

and found my shell was smooth, nut hard

and pearly if you looked at the right angle…

In response I filled my dresser with lotions and lemon wax 

in case I needed to be shiny.

(there is nothing quite like that showroom finish…)

I was more heavily layered across my heart

which I suppose made sense.

Days passed and I watched the change slowly glaze over over me,
like syrup over a cold teaspoon,

and found it only speeded up when I read or watched the news,  

unlike poor Gregor

who metamorphed in one night.

Finally one day I was completely encased,

and my friends stopped trying to get me to a spa,

or a bar,

stopped saying,

“but you have a pretty face!”

And my mother decided the neighbors would talk anyway,

so the curtains were opened.

And I did crosswords with my shiny pointed pincer,

and learned the names of all the constellations as I lie 

on a thick furry rug under the window,

gazing out at the night,  

studying the stars,

and wondering if I was hard enough to reflect back

the lights in the sky.

©jayetomas2019

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About chimerapoet

I write. I write a lot. A. LOT. There are times I am half blind with a sentence ricocheting off the walls of my stupid, cant be shut off to save my life, brain. I am miserable until I get it down on paper. Punch it up a bit. Usually cross out half of it. And then breathe. Relax. Only to do it all again..... But I just thought that was me. How I am. Not a writer....noooo...not me. Writers are.....writing people. People Who Write. REALLY write. Write things that matter. All grown up very important things. Not.....me. I am just a scribbler of sorts. And I was/am content with that....if it's true, well then....a scribbler am I. Until the thought wormed its way in to my brain (the furtive sneaky bitch) that maybe...just maybe...that is writing. My style. My strange way. But....still writing. So here I am at the dance. Not sure I know any of the moves and the music is entirely mine. But.....only one way to find out. Would you care to join me?
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