This maddening itch in my heart is like–

poison woven into tissue, sepsis radiating from the site where unspoken words putrefy in anger and hope, toxifying blood, anxious for salve. dreams and wishes withering under reality’s hot sun, lost; an empty hole in a brick wall betraying its completion; absence yearning for touch. desire unnamed, the chafing of which tears the hole wider, fraying thread and loosening buttons until the entire fabric compels thorough refashioning. a deep wound beginning to heal, pain throbbing and dissolving per some strange rhythm, work which scratching would undo, requiring patience, toleration.