Itchy bumps grow. My irritated pores beg for me to scratch, leaving streaks from chewed sharp fingernails. Irrational thought urges me, ‘Please don’t stop!” The relief is addicting and of deepest satisfaction. But it is cheap and temporary satisfaction, a rough caress of dirty fingers and wrinkled hands, over and over the same area of skin, begging for something more, like a child before it can speak crying tears of desperation. How did I erupt in such burning discomfort? Eczema, allergies, bug bites, hives or my own delusion? As I examine my body further I wonder: am imagining the sensation crawling over my legs, up my arms and to neck? Is my constant abrading only spreading and intensifying the burn? And is my stress and deep worry only perpetuating the pain? Please, I cry like the child, Alleviate my self-induced suffering! Soak me in cool wet kisses. Exfoliate and moisturize my abused, damaged skin in a bath of fresh, smooth, thick comfort. Gently heal my body back from its red, bumpy anger to its light pink, brown, yellow glowing glory so I can one day learn to not lose sleep picking and prodding over something that is not there.