itch

The dream of bugs inside me
and the doctor can only comb them out.

Return,
return to
hope imagined thinly.

I have been reaching
where most can not scratch. I learned
from late nights I spent waiting
for the earth to move
and dawn to move
and all the black legs that would tickle
my own legs and my body
would be nothing but welts.

A mixture of my blood
on their mouths. They move the mattress.
My thoughts with the bugs
as they fly within the springs.

An obsession, a watchful eye,
a plug in the sink. The slug watching me
as I watch it and wonder how the journey felt
through the drain. And if it had been worth it.