At first it's an itch,
then a scratch.
Listen
real quiet—
you can hear it latch.
When I whisper,
there's a twist—
so soft
you might miss it.
It moves a stitch.
One tiny inch.
When I talk,
it walks.
Six legs on little pegs,
crawl and sprawl.
What does it want?
What does it need?
The more I speak
the more it seeks
a way out.
I wonder what happens
if I
SHOUT.