Scratch.

Scar after new scar dots my skin in haphazard constellation, a chart of sites where tiny, greedy mouths took their fill of my life. Unwelcome guests, all, who reduce me to nothing more than an eternal meal, and yet such is their power that I’ve not slept in my own bed for three days. Such is their hunger that they take what their airborne compatriots shun.

Food for bugs in the end, I.

This round, however, is to be cut short by a professional hunter with chemicals of mass extinction. I look forward to sleeping in my bed again.

Pain beckons in the meantime.

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