by Crystal Bixby
They come in the summer.
Those flying masses
They come to use small pieces of you.
The visible pieces
They bite and steel your tenderness,
taking from you nourishment for themselves.
You want to itch.
You want to attend to the chemical they've created inside you.
that sensation that is so hard to ignore,
Pleading, and screaming at you like a hungry cat
So you scratch the itch.
Now it's too f'n late.
You've given the itch your scratch.
And most of the creatures die away in the winter
Leaving you bitter,
with an infectious pondering
and a confused notion of men.