That Sting That Won't Quit

The pink patch burns beneath the sheets,

a scab cracked open by careless fingers—

sharp, like a secret clawing out of sleep.

I scratch, knowing it only wakes more,

a futile battle beneath skin’s thin wall,

tiny flakes falling like broken promises.

The itch—it is not the pain,

no, it’s the urge that drives you mad,

the pulsing need to rip open what’s closing,

a silent protest against forgetting.

There’s no mercy in this small fire,

just the stubborn heat of healing,

a sting that won’t quit,

not yet, not yet.