She Is My Infection

My hands are tingling.
My feet are tingling.
The back of my head is tingling.

Is She here?
Is She present?
Is She my infection?

My hands are burning.
My feet are burning.
My face is beet red.

I know She’s here.
I know She’s in me.
She is my infection.

The folds in my skin are itching.
The muscles in my arms are clenching.
My thighs are spasming.

She is spreading.
She is overwhelming.
She is the ultimate infection.
Before my untimely death —

My hands ache to be ripped from my wrists,
My feet are blood sausages,
swelling to unrecognizability.

My face and torso are covered
in disfiguring welts.

Six feet under
Would be a welcome relief
From this inner invasion.

I lose all control
And drop to the floor.
Unable to move
Every part in physical agony.

That creepy spark beneath my skin,
A guest I never invite.
She is hot. She swells. She tortures.
A tale I lived to tell —
Until that spark ignites again.

Such is my life.
A battlefield.
Run by a tyrant.