Mosquito

Though I’ve shut my windows, scotch taped any holes, doused myself in Deet, and flap my arms with the avidity of a baton twirler, you’re there, nipping at my skin, hanging like a sun spot in the periphery of my vision, blood-hungry, persistent, tiny embodiment of craving that appears from nowhere, impossible to drive away until indignant mounds of flesh have already risen to mark passage, by which point, infuriating speck, you’ve vanished in epiphany: in the act of feeding on me, you discover what you are.