It’s the season for them. I hate them. I killed one the other day which left a small drop of my blood on my bedsheets. Unfortunately the damage had already been done. There were about four volcano like lumps on my arm, with a little crater of blood in the middle. I had no guilt of killing it. I hope it’s not a mortal sin.
Here’s a poem about them. Mosquitos.
I feel your caressing touch
In the sultry dead calm of the devil’s hour.
Dehydrated, you lie next to me,
Rather than in the meadows full of fat cows and lush flowers.
I hear your deathly buzzing whisper
Hovering intimately above my ear,
Not for a second am I enticed by your wicked, wicked charm,
Though the effects of your bite fills me with fear.
I cover myself up of my nakedness
As I despise being touched by you,
Though you keep me up in a feverish angst,
What you carry I haven’t got a clue.
I barely feel your caressing palms,
There’s not a sound as you pierce my skin,
You leave without saying goodbye,
As faintly as a drop of a pin.
You leave me with a swelling pain,
Like a snap slap upon my skin,
And you’ve taken what you want from me,
Heartless, like a man made of tin.
When I get up in the morning,
I feel I have been lusted for but received no joy,
Tonight I will not forget to apply suffocating repellent,
That lube you will not enjoy.