The Grudge

When I wake, it itches.

When I try to sleep, it hurts: I lie on my back, my pillow becomes a blade; I turn, my nightshirt becomes granite pebbles; I take everything off, my sheets become sandpaper.

It is an angry crimson, and it burns.

I'm worried it'll become cancerous just to get back at me.



My sunburn can sure hold a grudge.