She
manipulated the green glove of her fingers,
carefully,
so that they left no
scarring.
Deftly,
she brushed, smoothed and soothed away
each
itchy
layer
of flesh.
Each time an odor offended,
she'd bump into a random
man
or woman,
sloughing
off
the smell
as they brusquely walked
on past.
They,
who felt the momentary nudge,
but thought she
was the edge of a lamp post,
an errant branch
from an unkempt shrub.
Afterwards
a new layer of green scales
would fill in
and she'd smile at
the trick of it,
at the sly sin of leaving
her old self behind.
Copyright October 3, 2011 All Rights Reserved by Author
Melissa A Howells/ Meloo of Tilt-a-World
