New Scales

by Virginia Eggerton

My tongue is a ribbon unfurled, curled around the trail of a scent. I follow that smell as if it were the loose thread of a thing unraveling. I follow it until I find you.

I would know your scent anywhere: sour, earthy. Like turned milk and new mulch.

I didn’t know I was a snake when we met, didn’t know I could shed myself until I saw that piece of me, a whole unto itself, as thin and delicate as lacewing, splayed on your roommate’s mustard-yellow couch. I don’t remember doing it, either. One moment your hand was on my hip. You pressed into me even after I twisted away, writhed, tried to escape. I could feel the stubble on your chin scrape my neck like steel wool. The next moment I was outside myself. 

I didn’t know then that I was leaving a ghostly likeness behind. Not many creatures can do that, y’know. I certainly didn’t think I could, but I guess I’d just never had to before, never been so uncomfortable in my own skin. 

It’s an advantage, this shedding thing. At first it was terrifying. Everything was raw and sore, my body an open wound, but it was worth the ache. I abandoned the skin that you touched, became clean. I can do it again. 

You don’t see me coming, and how could you when I can make myself so small now? When I can practically disappear? 

By the time you do see me, it’s too late. You try to grab me but I’m just so quick. I coil around you, slithering up your arm until I find your neck, the cartilaginous protrusion of your Adam’s apple. God, I love this body of mine: sinuous, supple, strong. 

I have to ask: did you know, when you did it, that snakes had no eyelids? Did you know that I could never close my eyes? 

Published November 22nd, 2020