A sight for sore eyes

My face is covered with welts and blisters. These explode in little volcanoes of pus and I scratch at them until they bleed and scab over. My skin is craterous, my whole body is erupting in sores and I walk along itching at myself like a rabid destitute. I should wear a shroud to hide my diseased figure. I'm not attractive today, I am retreating from swan to cygnet, just like a reverse fairy story. Where is my fairy godmother to magic this all away? Where are my glass slippers to cut my feet until they resemble a bloody pulp like the rest of me. Perhaps at midnight I will return to my pumpkin state, at least then the many bumps and hollows will have some sort of delicious quality, due to the silkiness of the flesh underneath.