Stolen Blood

His words. Mosquito bites. My itch. Too deep to scratch. The virus in our skin. Infecting all our other parts. Touch. The contagion. That's killing everything.

His words. The cemetery. My eulogy. Alive in my coffin. Dead in my flesh. The clown nose in his face. The suspenders in his breath. I close my eyes and go there. I've never been anywhere else.

I stab the picture. Mosquito bites. Lingering itches.

I scratch. Until no skin is left.

The plan in his back pocket. The contingency bored with him.

What will we do now that itch has subsided.