Sentence starter: When you mention the word scorpion…
… my hairs raise, electrify, corrupt my arms, like pin-pricks, paper-clips, nails, agitated and vicious across my freckled skin. My leg begins to shake, a habit Mum says drives her crazy, particularly when she’s watching TV, particularly when I’m not even triggered, my mind numb, the habit almost-innate. Although this time it isn’t. It’s transfixed in my mind, it’s conscious.
Scorpion. Scorpio. Spikey and sabotaging. Menace of the undergrowth, a beetle in disguise, camouflage and intentional. Scorpio. Horoscopes and astrology. Do they interlink? Are they alike? Born in October, do I resemble that of a wildebeest? Is it an insect, a mammal… a killer?
What am I? What do I resemble? Does astrology link to human existence or is it merely coincidence, a myth, something people buy magazines for, a hobby, something that gives them piece of mind?
It’s crawling through the sand, its ant-like feet, its black matte shell shimmering effortlessly in the sunlight. Confident and self-aware.
Me? I may be a Scorpio but I lack such characteristics. Maybe the differing suffix has much to say. Or not.