Molting

The house is dark when I arrive home. I am tired. I need rest.

Something crunches under my foot as I mount the steps of the front porch. I withdraw my foot. An insect. No, not an insect, but a carapace, a shed skin. A remnant, left behind when its occupant grew too large, moving to the next stage of its life.

I scratch idly at my chest, feeling the scales flaking away beneath my shirt. The surface beneath is hard, black, and chitinous.

Stumbling inside, I make for my bedroom and I wonder: what will I have become tomorrow?