4.13.01
Glad tidings of a sort, the rosea is gone.
I am left with ghostly white reminders in place of tender pink spots. Everywhere a lesion inhabited my flesh, a pasty white blotch now resides for months or even years.
My body looks like some sort of abstract animal print, white circles on golden tan hide, and I half keep my eyes open for poachers who might want to collect my pelt.
I can see in my head some exotic showcase ottoman covered with my tanned hide, a society dame crowing over it to her gardening society, "See this leather? It's very rare. The peculiar pigmentation of the hide occurs from a viral condition. Can you even imagine?"
And the ladies coo and fawn, commenting on the supple nature of the skin, before retiring to the greenhouse to ooh and ah over prize orchids.
