Mosquito Mistress

A piece that I wrote back in a college creative writing course I took to fill up my schedule.

The eighth ring of hell begins

swelling on your surface.

Damn mosquitoes---

you mutter to the air.

Your collection has increased

over the past few months;

No better way to tally

summer nights after sundown.

However, there comes a punishment

with this unusual satisfaction...

her name is desire.

The carcass from her lips

kisses the tips of your nerves.

She knows exactly,

what she's doing.

The static of her touch

is finding its way into your pulse.

Just one scratch is all you want.

Is that too much too ask?

Yes! Yes, it is too much!

What have the elders

always preached to us?

Keep your eyes down low,

your hands in pockets,

mind out of mind.

Do whatever it---

NO!

What, why?

Fine.

Let your nails scrape her hickey.

Your hands will forever

be a treadmill to her mark.

Just remember that

the scar will be on your surface,

never hers.

Author's Note

Any feedback is welcome as long as it is constructive!