‘Seczema’ by Isabel White

I flirt with my itch. By turns it niggles, seduces, pesters; as it gapes, festers, I reach down, don’t dare to look, rip legs to shreds with nails, shorn short  (but not short enough); viscous red smeared across my calf, warm to touch. I suppurate for art; as if sawed in half, shriek a pain. […]