it begins with an itch.

you scratch it,
you ignore it,
but the itch persists.

days pass, weeks pass.
you give in,
you reach up to scratch,
but you feel two strange nubs beneath your hair
and a phantom ache at the base of your spine.

months pass, years pass.
the itch spreads.
the itch grows.
every follicle on your face feels like a needle.
you tear off your glasses.
panicked,
razor in hand,
tangles of blood and hair fall into the sink.

you look into the mirror,
but turn quickly away.
you bandage your face,
you let no one see it.
you wonder if you're dreaming,
you wonder if you're sane.
still the itch spreads.
still the itch grows.

finally, 
you rip off the bandages
and you turn the knob all the way.

the scalding spray burns 
in rivulets over your flesh
and as you scrub violently, 
chunks of skin slough off 
into the steaming water.

beneath emerges a new skin, a smooth skin,
a tender, tingling, bright green skin.
you revel in the pain.
you wash it all away.

and day by day, you feel the change,
slow but unyielding:

nubs grow into horns,
wings sprout from your back,
your spine lengthens into a tail.

your chest swells,
your hips widen,
a womb blossoms inside you.

the itch fades
and you put on your glasses once again.
you stare into the mirror,
but the man is no more.

a dragoness is born.

(© 2014 Cassander)