Poem 75

a portion of my Song of Self more to come later

Scaling
It would feel like sugar on the skin,
Making itself hard and thick and brittle,
Milky and bubbled catching the spheres
At inconsistent levels as if trying to speak brail.
It would tug at the inner most lining of the pores
Plucking the puckering lips about the follicles,
Binding itself to the hair expressing upon the surface only
Subtle sloping waves. The stem of each scale
A plate with a tip, the slick slipping prick
As they came together clicking and pricking those burrowing below.
It would start slow. Like the itch of a twitch in my fingertips
The grasp of a rasp on the surface. Merely an annoyance.
But from the tips of my bones a floating remote coat
Would rise and surmise on the surface the urge to converge
like chainmail, or worse, roof shingles, one mingles and
chews the idea of water-proof but never dared to test it.
Hesitating to show them the sun, they would bleach
And screech as the movement in the air clicked them together
Constant and craning, the clicking and sticking of their points to their joints
Would drive sure insanity through the root of my cells and boil
The toil in my mind to pick at them until I was bare and bleeding
Only for the follicles to return harder and more shining than before.
What’s more, the light would catch them like fire and retire their
Heat to the underside of my flesh. Hidden warming now swarming
Until I began to accept them as my own. All alone under a borrowed
suit of armor…
We will breed battle for the sea. 
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