The color of thick smoke, but feathery like haze.

The sound off its wings reminiscent
Of today’s technology, humming persistent,

Its snout a needle, searching for veins.

I avert my eyes from the unpleasant theft
As though recoiling from alcoholic breath;

Though, when it bites, its midriff inflames,

To the sweet red hue of indulgence...
But never without consequence...

A person’s skin, left welted and maimed.

“Don’t touch it!” they scold,
But resolve grows old...

Scratching is all that I crave…