It begins with an itch  
then another   and another– 
those screaming red eruptions  
on arms   legs    and unmentionables 
(Isn’t life a bitch!) 
the tell-tale sign of corruption– 
bloodstains on your pillow 
the viscous film of wet dream 
on your shrinking fitted sheets  

Who are they?  these creeps 
these mites   small flat parasites   big appetites 
that live in dark places   alleyways   hidden spaces 
who feed off you   in excess 
before they retire to the comfort of your bed 
where they enjoy easy access   Yum 
while you lay sleeping? 

These creeping encasements of excrement      
that gorge themselves on pleasure 
Nightcrawlers who dig for buried treasure  
who can survive several months 
without a bloodmeal in increments   and in leisure 
But then you were always on the menu 

Paris is plagued with bedbugs   red bugs 
Menu à la carte   Men you can’t get rid of 
Some   who once lived in your heart 
in between the cracks 
who live on their backs   and off your flesh  
who live for your sex… 
sometimes your Ex! 
Bloodsuckers who return nightly 

Where do they come from?  
these scammers-go-lightly 
these addicts   who bug you   who bite you
over and over
Engaging  mites   soundbites    
hi dear  hi dear hi dear  
can I call you can I call you can I call you 
now? Now? Now?
Can I come? I mean…can I come over?
Over and over–
pesky pests
who want what they want
who can’t take NO for an answer
who like a fly buzzing incessant
Reddy kilowatted
can’t hear a word you say 
until they are finally swatted 

Always 
I am dressed to kill  
Kills bugs dead 
I take no prisoners 
I will annihilate you in the end 
with just one look   (I wrote the book!) 
But why must I always start from scratch– 
that human itch–handled with kid gloves 
the sore that never heals or mends 
a love-bite   a sound-bite   a parasite 
Paris site   that all too familiar need– 
Ahhhh…to be loved to be loved to be loved 

Pesty men   like cock–roaches   
may outlive us all   
they will eat you for lunch 
live inside your head 
reinvent the dead 
But those of us  
(if we know what’s good for us) 
will leave our own red mark 
that kiss-off    
before that fatal crunch 
that disappears   into the sting of dark 
Love never goes unsaid