The Itch

I scratched the itch, and the itch got worse-

I scratched the itch, and found friction burns.

I scratched the itch, and then it bled-

Next time I scratched, I wound up dead.

Today, in the midst of my second day of the social media sabbatical, I thought, in poem, about the compulsion (itch) to check my “feed.” I didn’t succumb to the urge, but it returned and returned and returned. Addiction comes in a million packages. Right now, I can’t even think any more about this, as my mind wants to carry me into darkened, hopeless places, and I’m just not welcoming that into my evening. I’ll be better off turning off.