The Itch

Dimitri woke up when his heart started turning,

It spun in his breast as he felt himself yearning.

He couldn’t be sure when the symptom had hatched:

A mysterious Itch that refused to be scratched.

He ate a big breakfast to banish the feeling

But soon found the food insufficient for healing.

A damning desire corroded his core

As the Itch begged the host to indulge it some more.

He finished his eggs and his bacon and grits,

And poured himself coffee to strengthen his wits.

But the caffeine and cream and vanilla extract

Made Dimitri feel jumpier after the fact.

The pestilent pining grew stronger inside,

So the souring man sought solutions untried.

He chuffed on a stogie, and when it ran out,

Pulled a fresh cigarette to the base of his snout.

Tobacco and nicotine lightened his head,

But the Itch was persistently doubling his dread.

And when it grew stronger with each passing hour,

He ruled he would scrub it away in the shower.

The troubling impulse held onto his skin

As he lathered himself from his soles to his chin.

He pondered the facts of the possible figment

While sizzling water jets reddened his pigment.

Fearing futility in his endeavor,

He worried the Itching would plague him forever.

He threw back the curtains and let out a scream,

And fresh from the bath, staggered out of the steam.

He toweled his torso and dialed an ex

In hopes his compulsion would vanish with sex.

And when she arrived to assist in his mission,

He treated his anguish in every position.

It wasn’t enough for his ravenous heart,

And he sent her away, having torn her apart.

Discouraged and raw from the efforts he’d made,

He set out in search of a chemical aid.

He drank every bottle they had in the store

And then went to the bar for another one more,

And the wine and the beer and the whiskey and rum

Made a menacing cocktail inside of his tum.

The spark of his wanting ignited a flame

Of sadness and rage and impregnable shame.

In a series of actions he wouldn't remember,

He managed to sleep, and the Itch dimmed its ember.

Slumber allowed him a fleeting release,

But by nature of sleep, he did not know its peace.

And when soft morning sun tiptoed under his door,

The Itch stirred again, just like each day before.