Of Feeders and Cleaners

Grazing upon my hide, lumbering, ravenous beasts farm, crop, and munch upon the harvest rich-fields of my squamous integrum. The dermatologist tells me not to worry, that it’s just the normal microscopic fauna and flora. They clean away the dead, vacuuming-up the desiccated debris and dander. “We are not snakes” he says, “we need help to shed.” I can’t help thinking of those millions of par-blind, pig-like, tank-shaped organisms forever thriving, feasting, and then they themselves decaying upon my skin, and they all-unknowing that they are most definitely not the greatest creatures ever to have roamed the earth! Instinctual animalcules constantly changing the density of the shadows I cast, the thickness of my shedding. Mites nibbling away at my silhouette, until either it seems to be far too heaped and corporal, or way too transparent to be seen in strong sunlight.