The Itch

 

I’ve got an itch. Nothing metaphorical

It’s on my foot. The middle bit. 

The palm? The small?

No, that’s backs. 

The instep? Maybe. I don’t know. 

I only know it itches like a thousand bitches

And I know it shouldn’t scratch it but

It makes me think I might go mad and
It would be so good to rip off its stupid face and

It doesn’t have a face

I know

It’s just a bit of me

A place that, for some reason, has decided

My attention should be divided by its

Ticking, pricking, son of a bitching

Endless itching

I said it wasn’t metaphorical

But a part of me thinks, what is its genesis?

I mean, I see things in a way

You might call holistic

Mind and body interconnected

Emotions just as strong a part of how

My physical responses pop and crack

So if there’s pain, what’s the real cause?

Am I sublimating guilt or grief?

Am I anxious in a way I can’t perceive?

Is the foul distraction, there, beneath my sock

My body’s way of telling me to stop and take stock?

Or is it just because we changed washing powder?

I’d forgotten we’d done that

It’s probably that.

Now everything itches.