The itch
There has been an itch that needs scratching. It gets violent at night. It gets out of hand at precisely 3 a.m. It takes the form of my tears, swelling up my eyes, washing my pillowcase, twisting my hair. If I collect those tears, those memories unfurl into a movie, a movie I know the title to but resist calling by name. Naming things makes it that much more personal. It reminds me of those days from the past when I laughed because I loved it when people laughed with me, when now I only do so because I feel I need to. That itch reaches the inside of my brain, making it harder for me to touch it, remove it, scratch it. It devours my brain, every nerve, every inch of my existence, my being. It makes me want to let go of my ego, but also gives me the strength to leave it to the universe. The world looks different at 3 a.m. It’s scarier. Darker. Homier. It would be false to assert that I don’t sleep because of it. The truth is, I don’t want to let go. Let go of the hollowness this night brings, the palpitations my tears unfurl, the idyllic fantasies my brain creates, none of which include the past. The itch makes me want to stay. It also makes me want to run away. It sucks my soul, my body, my sense of self. It brings me back from the clutches of a parasite. It doesn’t let me go, doesn’t let me breathe.
The itch is you.
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