The Itch

The itch is pervasive and pernicious;
It radiates outward continually
From my innermost inner infected soul.
It flash-refreshes like a strobe,
And drives me to extreme distraction.
Abrasive tools give some relief—
Steel wool, a scrub-brush, combs and nails,
A splintery, staple-studded pole—
But only for an hour or two.
I wish to peel away my layers,
My exocarp and epiderm,
And stun my nerves into remission,
A numbness that will quell their roar.
Short of death, there's no solution;
Antipruritics and salves fall flat;
And so I turn to unorthodox measures:
Autotomy may be the only cure.