It

It starts with an itch.

An itchy itch that burns from both ends, that entraps with its ticklish need - need for release, escape, freedom.

It's not really freedom, it's an illusory freedom, a new entrapment. But it's certainly a real itch.

It begins lows, beneath the threshold of must, but subaudibly thrums its way into being.

And then.

It does not reveal its name, its true nature, its unquenchable desire. Desires. It waits until you've become tangled in its thralls before it does this. Waits until it's too late, too deep, too a part. Entangled ensnared enmeshed.

It's more you than you. It knows this, holds this over you. If you don't allow it to breathe, occasionally, it will smother you. Without blinking, without thought - it will sniff out your weakness and snuff out your light.

It's calling now. It waits for nothing.