In a dystopian future where mosquitos have been all but eradicated, manual injections of anti-coagulants are a luxury in which the rich partake. Demand is high and access is highly restricted. On the surface, this is justified through religious ideologies, but at its core it is driven by class discrimination; it is a way for the wealthy to give yet another hearty fuck-you to the poor.
As often happens in the case of substances which are both in demand and restricted, a thriving illegal drug trade has emerged. Low-quality anti-coagulants trickle down to the poor, but are, of course, subject to higher sentencing, for the safety of those taking them.
People share needles. Facilities for safe-injections exist, but mostly people prefer to attend ‘injection orgies' where they literally scratch each other’s backs.
An itch from a bug bite
I scratch and scratch
A bitch with a red light
I went too fast
Skipped the warning
Got the ticket
An inconvenient bill, a note that states you went for the kill
It pours from my limbs
My heart still pumping blood
A scab to stop the flood
Hardened yet still fresh
Don't pick at it
Unless you want a scar forever
She has bug bites too
Doesn't even bother to scratch
Says she doesn't want a bruise
What a difference
We don't handle our hurts the same
A time consuming uncertainty that burned me like a flame
A flame that started a forest fire
It burned down all the trees
Now there's nothing left but ash
A darkened, withered, dusty substance that once used to be
A bright, powerful, warm, hungry fire
A forest filled with lucious green trees that kept growing higher
I feel as if she's tired...
My bug bites still itch
Threw out the matches...
I had this incredible itch in my ear
To much dismay everywhere I looked I couldn't find a Q-tip.
My fingers were much to big to reach in and grant any kind of relief.
It just happened out of nowhere, this incredible irritation.
The longer it went on, the more irritating it became.
If it were anything else I wouldn't have considered it a blessing, then there it was.
A Q-tip. Laying on the bathroom counter.
All my life I never thought I'd be so happy to see a Q-tip.
In much delight I grabbed it and inserted it into my ear.
Almost teasing myself first going around my ear then sliding it into my ear-hole.
Twisting it left then right, eyes rolling back.
If you could feel exactly how I did. Reaching that one itch that would drive a sane man mad.
Any amount of money, hell even sex at that point wouldn't do any justice.
Twisting that Q-tip left then right.
I couldn't help but smile.
It wasn't until I pulled the Q-tip out of my ear when I saw a note attached to the end of it.
Wrote in real fine lettering.
I had to squint to read it.
Although I couldn't completely make half of it out, the last part was clear as day.
Out of curiosity. I laughed grabbing the other end of the Q-tip placing it back in my ear.
This time I felt a real sharp pain accompanied by a loud sound.
I instantly threw the Q-tip to the ground.
It didn't make sense to me then, maybe not ever.
But next time I know.
Never disturb a Minotaur while he is trimming the hedge in his labyrinth.
Especially after being warned the first time
There is a hunger I can't quench,
An addiction I can't subside.
An itch that burns under my skin
And I've tried scratching it.
I want that pretty silver tongue
To match pretty porcelain hands
Hovering over ink wells
And candle stands
But I can't have that.
I can't salvage
From the depths of my mind
A poem to wrap around words like
Art is a circle
But I am a line with crumbling architecture,
My thoughts linear and grit;
My prose stuffed with an hour-long process
Of charm and wit.
I write these words to feed you;
Fill you with the sense of understanding
That I can't come to.
My art is a lie with a rainbow
And I stand smiling in an empty room,
A vacant audience in a ghost of a show.
I write because I need you.
I write because I want to dance for you.
I write because I want to seem wise.
But all that it amounts to
Is a high that always dies
And a candle that burns out
Far too quickly.
This is not a cry.
This is not goodbye.
This is me.
And I hope, for me,
That this is enough to satisfy.
I'm eager to please you all.
Also, what even is correct punctuation in poetry?
I know, I know, I'm sorry.
I can't help but speak my selfish thoughts into the wind.
Scold me like you should. I need it badly.
I need your deep voice to yell at me. How selfish of me, always needing.
I say I have your intentions at the root of my thoughts yet I know I'm lying.
Please tell me this lie i speak is a little white one.
I say I'm doing this for you. I know I'm doing this for me.
Your lips are 9,222 Kilometers away from mine. I can't stand it anymore. It's crawling under my skin, causing me to itch.
My selfish heart needs your lip on me.
The blazing sun and blue skies roll around the corner and I need someones lips on mine. I'm breaking away.
Forgive me, I know I am wrong.
Your eyes look into mine
Graze at me one more time
Your hands begin to twitch
As you feel the nervous itch
Your legs begin to move
Opening to the moon
Now my eyes start to wander
Intensions no surprise
holding back, binding time
from docile to volatile
Walk on the water for a while
I'll show you the way
The way everythings the same
My eyes examine you
you examine me too
lets us stop this dance
let us do what we long to do
connect my energy to you
I'm here inside you
late at night,
or early in the afternoon,
Sometimes in the morning
and sometimes during noon,
I get this itch on the grooves of my palm.
Then inner turmoil becomes instant calm,
Only if I fit a pen between my thumb,
and index finger,
And then that itch will move and tither,
and far away from my hand it'll slither
It'll work its' sneaky way inside my brain,
And halt to stop along the way,
To push my feelings, and my pain,
my insecurities, my fears, all drained,
and pulsing out through that very pen,
the itch made me hold once again.
And I'll bleed, and bleed and bleed,
until there's no more use for ink
And the minute that the ink runs out,
the itch disappears; without a sound!
When will it be back? Who knows?
Meanwhile, my breath returns,
The itch now scratched and my mind relieved,
My whole life was scribbled on a sheet.
And through that sheet my feelings sprout,
until that itch comes back around.