Insignificant at first, I pay you little mind as I give a light scratch.
Moments later you're back, slighly more intense. Again... I scratch.
Now you're a swelling, burning welt. More irritating than ever, I scratch again.
You're spreading, overtaking more of my body. Itching, burning, annoying.
I dig in hard. Scratching, tearing and pulling at you. Further you spread.
The more I fight you, the more of my body you consume. I just can't stop.
Bleeding now, but still scratching. How can you still exist if I have torn the skin from you..?
There's nothing left to scratch, nothing left to fight for. You win, Itch. You win.
I accept the discomfort now. I've already given too much thought to your existence.
Minutes later, you're gone. You've left your mark though. These scratches I've caused wont be gone as quickly as you were. I will remember you, but I sure as fuck won't miss you.
It's a metaphor...I'm a recovering alcoholic, but at the same time I do get these shitty welts that itch a lot. Fuck em!
Love,
Bryson
