An itch  

Her body is wrapped in bandage
For her skin does not scab
Once again
it is torn by her own nails
Which now protrude from her limbs
Her legs and arms horribly disfigured and impaled
Cut and bruised at her own hand
She tries not to look at them
As they only blemish her very vision
and claw at her memory
Void of mercy
and gentleness
they can no longer be hidden
stubbornly forgotten and encased in her bleeding flesh
Again, she will begin to itch
And then the memories
they will subside
after she has scratched raw all of her limbs
all of her itches
But she will grow new ones.