I saw the mosquito land on my thigh. They always said my legs were too pale, too ghoulish, but it's enough to feed an insect, maybe it's enough for someone to lay their head on.

My palm hovered over it, I wanted to strike it, that is what I was taught to do, strike someone when they hurt you. But I think I froze, I froze when I saw the little flat flap of the gremlin grow voluptuous and crimson from my blood, the blood filled underbelly of the insect looked vibrant, lively in the gray mush of it's body. And to know that it's my blood making it so vibrant. I felt powerful, like a goddess.

Maybe I am useful, in some way.Moreover, had I slapped it off I wouldn't have gotten the blood back now, would I? It would have tainted of on my pristine white skin and I'd have to go wash of the sin of this puny abhorrence of nature. So I let it sting me.

Drop, drop, drop, it went, until the high of my blood made it dizzy, I've read somewhere that mosquitoes don't live long after sucking a man's blood, but they leave us with scars, like the gravestone of every cell that died from it's sting, I'm scared to wear short dresses now, my leg's full of these scars, but funnily enough it provides me little to no peace to know that the inflictor of my scar didn't live long, because I have to live with the testimony of it's hatred.

As the ditzy insect made it's wretched attempt to fly away, hovering low, I squashed it, as if all the poetry, all the compassion was squeezed out of me. I squashed the poor thing and ended it's sorry life, ended it's visible misery, maybe it was some twisted compassion after all.

~mon