MOSQUITO

A mutant mosquito, assuredly kin to the vampire, stalks me in the night. Her invisible kisses pierce my soundest sleep. Instantly I am awake, tormented by fiery, tantalizing waves that radiate from each of her loving, poisonous bites. My innocent arms, ankles, cheeks and neck are her prized hunting grounds, and she claims her pleasure freely. Floating away in the dark night, sated with sweet blood, she leaves me utterly possessed with the desire to scratch; to pierce and flay the tender welts she leaves behind. Yes, even to the bone would I scrape, if I could relieve her exquisite, incendiary curse. By sheer force of will I refuse temptation and sink again to troubled dreams. By morning, only the faintest tracks remain.

(I have been assured that "by end of rainy season, no mosquitos more." Can't come soon enough!)