Sandpaper in my throat
and bugs on my skin.

Breathing through my nose,
I resist the urge to scratch
scratchscratch. My eyes blur
but I cannot decide whether
that is weariness or denial.

I lack fingernails.
I draw invisible lines
with the fleshy pads at my
fingertips.

Sensations overwhelm the itch
(Just for a minute.) The texture
of my flesh is comforting and
normal.

This uphill trudge into illness
is a hellish trek.
I barely survive when well.
Like this? I don't even want to.

5/8/2011
03:27