New Skin

A Poem by Ronda

Bad marriage, bad job, bad friend... we are all a slave to something. Who would not want to let it out and plot our revenge against the thing that controls us?

The cloudy-eyed man blows his
dirty breath into that golden flute,
stringing the notes to
my basket, weaved with
disgust and turmoil.

Ahhh, but wait...

The basket now contains a
new color of jaded tint,
only known to me.
The skin,
delicate with misery
and fragile with uncertainty
was replaced
with something new,
patterned with a different
hue of revenge.

And as I tip the lid off
and the sun catches my eyes,
peering outside at
that charming man,
A grin creeps inside,
surfacing in my throat as
I hold my fangs in until
the time is right
to show him my
true colors.