Fright

I sit on these hands.
Every night when I can start feeling it take over, I need to sit on these hands.
I trim these nails.
Every week I will be reminded why I keep them short. Length is dangerous.
I cover this skin.
Every day, "Long sleeves to keep them asleep."

Tedious.
I'm not cold.
I'm not energetic.
I'm not worried about appearances of minor digits.

At night it comes to change me.
I am transformed.
I become that rabid dog hoping that every scratch with tear off the mites underneath.
I become the vermin you see squirm around sewers and waste.
I become the lion, prepared to pounce on its prey.
I am tormented by what I cannot see, what lies deeper within the skin, what reminds me of each lie I told to live in my sins.
I am tormented by an itch that cannot be contained by some medicine or any ointment.
I am tormented by an insatiable desire to keep scratching until I see it.

Crimson, small, minor.
A burn. A droplet. A sting.
That which reminds me that no matter if it is in my head, it still inflicts corporeal pain.

I sit on these hands until it goes away.
I trim these nails until I cannot scratch.
I cover this skin until the pull releases.

I do this until my mind returns from Fright.