Got that itch,
that little tickle.

At the base of the neck
lower really,
between the shoulders.

Building there,
festering and spreading

Little microbes of feeling
multiplying and burrowing
under the skin.

A seething mass
putrid thought amoeba,
pregnant with pain and old emotions.

Trapped and trapping me
looking for escape.

Drugs numbed and drink distracted
sickness and hangover masked
Wounds still festering untreated.

Rotting and deepening unseen
entering the blood
breeding and boiling there.

Till the infection floods the brain
exploding into a red riot of rage,
and the sharp blue steam of pain.

Until, system in revolt,
the body breaks down,
defences fall and fail.

The years of fear
escape through any crack,
exposed to fresh clean air
burn all the more for it.

Aching be treated correctly, slowly,
with love, patience, and you.