Bringer Of Malaria

There was a mosquito in my room one night and she wouldn't leave me alone, the maddening whine of her wings in my ear as she searched for a good place to settle and drink.
So, deprived of sleep, I wrote this one. The mosquito can be a metaphor for something depending on how the reader chooses to look at it, or it can simply be about these living dirty needles who carry malaria.

The high pitched whining buzz
An insistent tone in my ear
Singing her thirst
As she smells the warmth and sweetness
In my uneasy, shallow breath

The reek of disease as alluring as any perfume
Lie still, try not to breathe out

Too late

She is back and she wants more blood
One kiss is not enough
One touch won't sate this lust
She will come and dip into you and give you
An itch unceasing, a madness that follows fever
Escaping into brain-death

The threat of sleep is as immense as any glacier,
But soon the eyes close and the muscles slacken
And the blood

She will catch you and have you
And you will never be clean again

Her young wait within her, unborn
But given life by involuntary transfusions

Filthy needles jab, the wings hum, a blood dance
Whose beat you hear only in fever-mad daydreams

A growing disease, or simply
An itch, a flaking of skin and oozing sore
To fade in time

She is the bringer of malaria,
Tiny and purposeful

Spawning in warm shallow pools
A flurry of thirst and need
Cold coupling, dedicated mother,
Ensuring survival as she hovers by your ear
In damp warm dark

Be quiet and let her feed
Let the whining wings
Be a whispered assurance
That you are warm and you are alive
That you are wanted

The End

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