Itch

Sometimes hands, the other times arms
And then the troublesome back
Here and there, now and then
They form shape.
An old wound or a flare
Or that allergy unknown

All they do is to make me fret
I fume, I anger, I wail
And then I vent my ire
Rub and scratch till it soothes
Only to flare again.
The more I scratch,
The more it grows
And more our intensity
Of outdoing each other.
Till the time comes when he
Grins and triumphs,
Laughing aloud over his prize -
my bloodied skin
And I watch mute,
Totally petrified.