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.

My arm is wrapped in white
My arm is covered in red hard things
My nails and my arms don't get along
They battle a lot
My arm hardly ever wins

I hear the scratching in my walls all night
It sounds to sinister it gives me a fright
It could be mice or maybe legions
Of some really ******* ****** demons
I hope it's just my ****** up imagination
Not again, my own damnation
Guess I'll just lay here and wait for the screaming
I've past insane, there's no redeeming

picking and scratching
my skin bleeding
the scars all over remind me of certain times in my life
when the stress got too much to handle and I sat in the bathroom for hours
destroying the body that was given to me
burning down my humble abode
just picking and scratching away at my sanity
which I'm not sure I ever really had
the scars that I get comments on daily
'Did you try to hurt yourself?'
'Are you alright?'
'Are you being abused or unsupervised?'
no answer really just staring at them;
whilst picking at my scabs in that blissful agony that I love to feel