The urge.
The itch.
Scratching layer after layer.
I’m angry and totally sick of it.
Punching the ball of rage.
Blunt, bruised and blackened.
Through healing I’m bleeding.
I cry oceans from grief.
So I can swim my way to freedom.
And one day be weightless.
No urge, no itch.
Featherlight and fly.
Living my life.