Stories of Poetry and Vice Versa

Itch.

I have never
Been quite so uncomfortable
In clothing before.
Despite its comfort
I am not at home.
Despite its looseness
I feel constricted.
Despite its relaxedness
I am on edge.
The itch starts out small.
I don't bother to scratch at it for that reason
And it's where I cannot reach
But it bugs me.
I push it out of my mind.
But it keeps bugging me
And the people walk by
And scratch the back of the person beside me
And my itch grows worse.
I can no longer ignore it.
And again.
And it gets worse.
And it weighs on me.
And again
And again
And again and again and again andagainandagainandagain.
I want to tear these clothes apart.
I do not belong in them
I have this itch
That has taken over my brain.
I have this itch
That I cannot fight anymore.
So I give up
And I let it take over.
I am itchy.
I do not belong in these clothes.
I am itchy in these clothes.
I am kind of scratched by some
Maybe
It's not really clear.
It doesn't help.
She's the only one who notices
And she has her own itch twice the size of mine
I cannot make her itch worse
And yet I do
But my itch does not shrink.
And I try everything I can
And nothing works.
I am too caught up in my own itch
To end up helping.
And she says I shouldn't feel bad
But I do
I do I do
When the itch takes over like that
I cannot escape it.
No matter how much scratching other people do
It won't go away.
I have to wait
And hope.
Because those clothes
I got so itchy in those clothes.