Being Bugged

My palm itched and the old monetary adage crossed my mind while I scratched at it deeply. A crooked smile crossed; being glad it was within a centralized reach today; avoiding the various dried bloody scrapes and welts located elsewhere. Not looking; hoping to keep my chronic disgust at bay, it is too late. The thought has already surpassed the attempted mental barrier and grips tightly. Digging harder, surface blood flows, forcing flaky bits of red tainted flesh underneath my longer than usual fingernails. But, they’re not long enough and the itch dives deeper, fades from my palm, into my wrist, and begins striking up my arm. My scratching unconsciously chases and I feel unclean. The worm is moving again…