mosquitoes raze mosquitoes_could_eat_me_alive and i wouldn't even notice. twice in the last three weeks they've taken something from me that i didn't know was missing until the itching started. first it was on the left side of my right thigh. i tried not to go anywhere near that spot with my nails. i settled for scratching around the bite when it got bad, to create the illusion of something slouching toward relief. the aluminum that lives in what keeps my armpits from smelling like onions took some of the edge off when i thought i might eat my own leg if i could trust my mouth to get the job done. three nights of trying to ignore what wouldn't be ignored. three days of staring at a small red bump that had no signals left to send my brain. and then it was gone. the day it disappeared, another mosquito got me on my left arm, halfway between elbow and shoulder blade. i used to be able to sense them on my skin. i would catch them in the act and kill them before they could finish what they started, smearing my fingers with whatever they carried in their guts. now everything that hurts me seems to strike when i'm not looking. this time i remembered what all the adults used to tell me when i was a kid carving up my own cannibalized skin. leave it alone, they said. pretend it isn't there. i took no notice of the angry circle of white below my shirtsleeve. it was gone before it had a chance to rise and turn red. i didn't have to spend another week waiting for a closed wound to fade. i headed it off at the pass. still. i'd murder them all if i could. i'd crush every last one of those bloodsucking bastards and flood the city with all they've stolen from the unseen streams that carried us here and keep our words afloat. and i wouldn't lose a second of sleep over it. 220629 ... ovenbird Mosquitoes exist to provide a vocabulary of yearning. I am convinced that they serve no other purpose. Without them we would have no apt metaphors for the kind of desire that eats you alive. As I walk home in the gloaming mosquitos find my wrists and probe for blood vessels with a system of six piercing stylets. They inject me with saliva which contains a collection of associations that I can use at will to describe exactly what it feels like to pine after something that is just out of reach. The welts make concrete an otherwise indescribable wanting–the unbearable itch under the skin that won’t be ignored, the insistent scratching with ragged nails that I attempt despite knowing it will only make it worse, the relief that never comes. Sometimes tiny teachers arrive with mouths that saw you open. They make a meal of the proteins that keep you alive then leave messages under the skin that you find when you scratch so hard you draw blood. A tiny note tangled in capillaries reads: Here are the sensations you must befriend to know your longing. P.S. Thanks for dinner. 250601 what's it to you? who go blather from