Your inner thighs itch because there are hundreds of tiny bugs chewing right beneath the second layer of skin. Or thousands of tiny bugs. They may be fleas. May be bedbugs. May be something else. Maybe your thighs itch because, drunkenly, you pissed down your legs. It hits your thighs. It leaves trails. Or maybe you’re not drunk. Maybe you’re impatient and uncouth. Maybe it’s just December and the weather is dry, so your thighs, like your hair, like your scalp, needs more moisture. Your thighs itch like crazy because they sweat in the heavy jeans you wear, the skin pushed closely against the rough material. You can’t stop scratching.
Your butt begins to itch, too, and you’re sure it’s the soap
you’re using. Did they change the formula? Did you change the soap? And which
soap? Is it the laundry detergent or the shower gel? Should you move away from
the shower gel to something with even more moisture? Should you return again to
black soap? Should you?
You could never touch your toes, even when young, with straight legs, no bent knees, and the heels and balls of your feet itch like fuck. You cross your legs and let the pump you should not have bought because you had to make your own lunch for a whole week and miss out (you’re always missing out) and you let the pump you should not have bought slip off your foot and dangle from your toes and carefully scratch the sole of your foot against the roughness of your tights—
It’s the tights! They are probably still full of soap from the laundry— or full of dust from somewhere. You imagine clothes packed in sand and did you wash these? did you wash these tights before you wore them? Or did you just put them on because you were in a bind
your crotch your crotch your crotch your
shoulders and arms are full of moles and skin tags and misplaced hairs and maybe thousands of little bugs chewing at the skin, right where the skin meets the flesh, and you itch there, you scratch your armpit surreptitiously while talking about last week’s news and this week’s projections and profit margins and stuff you learned in business school when you would rather—would have rather—
Your crotch maybe crabs? Maybe? Your
Shoulders slack beneath the weight of your blazer, your silk blouse, your sensible bra strap, your gender, your representational worth, your left should dips you wonder
you remember the symptoms of a
You list the symptoms of a heart attack. While talking about projections and marketing goals and stuff you learn in business school, you check off
- Left arm pain
- Breast pain, towards the middle
- Jaw pain
- Difficulty breathing
- nausea and lightheadedness
Say: I think I’m having a heart attack or want to say: I think I’m having a heart attack and probably should say: I think I’m having a heart attack interrupt with: I don’t want to be a bother, but I’m sure I am having a heart attack giggle lightly and say: hey! What are the symptoms of a heart attack? Hint at it and say: my left arm hurts and my jaw say: I’m going to take a short walk demand: call 911 stand: up walk with legs close together in order to clandestinely scratch
“What are the symptoms of a heart attack?” Stand
and fall over. And
fall over. and fall
They’ll all gasp. They’ll all gather. They want to help you. They want to call your husband. You don’t have a husband. They want to help you. Someone is always asking for people to let her breathe (“let her breathe!”), taking control. They want to help you. They want to be a part of it. Some of them are already part of the club. They talk.
They list dates.
They tap the hard plastic of their pacemakers. They want to help
your crotch is exposed. your floppy spring dress, boldly floral-printed, flopped up as you fell. You wore underwear, so this is good. You had on period panties because that was coming. Maybe it’s just your period. You say this, but someone says, “don’t be so dismissive.” someone tenderly lowers the scalloped hemmed dress over your exposed crotch over your thighs you want to say (and maybe you do)
scratch scratch scratch scratch scratch