Lately I am star-crossed with constellations of bites, little galaxies blazing on my skin. I ponder them, try to divine the beast that bit by the breadth of swell and ache of itch. But all too often they remain mysteries, a code I can’t decipher.
I am marked and I don’t know why. My peace has been stolen. I have no rest.
To me they are unknown and yet they know me, treat me like an angry passion, a bad-love pursuit. And there is a hole in my net.
I have tried reason, diplomacy, negotiations softened by the sombre falls of mesh and shades of dawn and dusk.
I have offered myself.I have empathised, sympathised, tugged myself out of me to feel for them.
I know they have their reasons, hungers, thirsts but there is only so much I should have to forgive and I am tired of having all the hurt.
So now I stalk them, act meek, feign fuzzy. Then sleep-heavy and bleary-eyed I corner them for the catch and crush. Change is a bright blood burst on my thumb.
I am not as nice as I look. I am allowed to be angry.
It is time to take some responsibility.