Those familiar longing pangs, felt in the gut, the heart, rattling the bars. The body’s wants physical, tangible, pulling. An itch that must be scratched. The devil’s dance.
I find a quiet corner, the better to savour the warmth of ritual, the tap-tap foreplay, all anticipation.
Sharp scratch. The needle. The skin. The darkness slips in.
This was written for day 3 of Writing 201: Poetry, using the prompts of skin/ prose poetry/ internal rhyme. This is well beyond my comfort zone, so any feedback welcome 🙂