My skin’s inner life feels like a punk song.

I can’t vegetate. On and on, it yells.

All my life, it’s been impossible to stand still.

 

My partner prays each night that I would stop fidgeting.

I lay beside her trying to hold every move.

A free-diver wrestles under the surface of my own skin.

 

It’s all so quiet, I keep my eyes peeled.

I can feel her warm breath, the moves of her belly

as she holds my fingers as strong as baby.

 

I can hear gas within the pipes

travel from one floor to another.

It’s all so silent, I can even hear the neighbor snore.

 

In this quietness, my pores respond

to each sound like a crowd cheers.

My hair swings like harms wave, and it itches.

 

It itches so bad I swirl.

I reach my arms to parts of the body

that can’t be touched, and I scratch.

 

I let my nails run down my skin.

I dig trenches into my arms and legs

until the itch is caught. But it is malicious.

 

An evil mole not so easy to trap.

My fingers may ease the sting,

the need already grows on the other side.

 

I spread my hands with elasticity.

I curve and attack with a stronger scratch

before I become home to the bad seed.

 

When it is out of control, I remember the Devil’s Snare.

I try to relax, to incorporate onto myself the alien touch.

I surrender, and pray for light.

 

I held my partner under the blanket. I adopt her rhythm.

I forget about every single agitated molecule, and rest my head to her side,

like a tired traveler finds shelter from a stormy night and rests against the walls of a cave.

 

If you listen closely, you can hear the germs move.

We are nothing but a field for new life.

It’s no premonition to pay attention to the underground.