Oh, long lost Melody,
Antagonize me with your cadence:
That song, dripping from the tip of my tongue
I know you- but not well enough to know how you went

How one moment we were finishing each other’s sentences
But then the very next- I never got the memo I guess-
We switched to syncopation as if I was just supposed to know
The things you loved about me would become my greatest downfall

How foolish was I to think a crescendo would lack a diminuendo
How much stupider was I to think I could still remain your friend though
For how could we have a song without our melody:
Those notes we no longer sing but still remain a part of me

As the itch I can’t scratch or the tip of my tongue-
The parts of me that realize there’s something that I must be missing..

I thought after
all these years of
being bitten and scratching sores,  
I'd eventually grow a thick enough skin
to keep out the mosquitos.
I was wrong.
Even so, mosquitos are nothing compared
to the itch I've got for you.
You see, mosquito bites are only skin deep,
but I've got this ravenous hunger for you,
gnawing at my bones.

And my legs itch,
Inside, like ants crawling in my veins,
Like an energy being held down,
Held back.
The itch,
That never goes away,
As I try to remain still,
As I try to focus.
The itch.
As if I wasn't meant to remain this way.
As if I was meant to travel and move.
As if I was meant to change and evolve.

And the itch is not just in my legs.
It's in my soul.
As I look out a window on a sunny day,
Or sit within the confines of a stagnant building,
Or look at the sun twinkling on water,
Or look at the stars waltzing in the black velvet of night.

I itch.

I feel
the itch.

The itch
of poetry,
I had it bad once,
Like a teenage allergy that bedeviled me
and then it was gone.
I thought I’d outgrown it.
No words
could make me sneeze
or make my eyes water.
I went many years immune to beauty,
with no urge to speak.
Never so much as a phrase, a word,
tickling me.
But I can feel it coming back;
the itch of words
that must be scratched out
or they will fester.
Come back Muse,
and scratch my back.

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 ****-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 ******' where they literally scratch each other’s backs.