The Itch

My birthday tomorrow.

I sit here, scratching at nasty blistering rashes that nobody else can see.
Stress? Bug bites? Lack of hygiene? Who knows – i’m unenlightened.
All I know is they appeared on Monday, Monday in bed.
I recently began catching possums, I laid traps that night. Was it that?
It could be poison on the wire or maybe something I ate? Was it the cat?
I drank lots of wine of Saturday and skipped dinner, was it that?
I keep putting alcohol on my hands, I don’t know what else is in those bottles.
I went out for lunch on Sunday, was it that?
My scalp, my pubes, my chest and stomach and arse – riddled.
I had sex, was it that? This, is my least favourite feeling.
A crawling sensation, a pinch, a fold, scuttling, invisible legs.
Spiders and crabs move faintly under the surface of my skin.
With disregard for my own future self, I gouge into my flesh and scrape away- layer after later until blood and lime fill my thoughts.
Gums leak saliva that I gulp back in pinched moments of tears and reflection.
When did this happen to me? How has it come to this.

I need to get back.
I need to get get back to it.
Get back on the horse.

Paint on a smile, all the while I crawl underneath my skin.
All red and pained. Eating all things that start with the letter C.

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