Bite

It bit me. I didn’t know
until the itch whispered
like a nudge, leaning over
to tell me to scratch the
Swell.

So I did. It was nice to
claw at something
unpleasant, to cut away
a patch of skin
with a shuddering hand.

Then I forgot –
I don’t know when it was –
that the bite began to tingle
like an open wound,
raw and sore and smarting.
It was a skinless patch;
My fingernails were guilty.

I preferred the hurting flesh
to some vague itch because
Scabs and Scars are predictable.
But I will never know when
and where it will bite
again, to torment me
with the frivolity
of an itch, the
long wait for
it to fade.

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