The Itch She Cannot Scratch
J
James McLain
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she sits at the bar
her nails chewed to nothing,
a lipstick smear on the rim of her glass.
the men orbit her like moths,
drawn to her heat,
but she keeps her eyes on the jukebox,
fingers twitching against
the lacquered wood.
there's something inside her—
a scream buried too deep
or a wound sewn too tight.
she scratches at the edges,
but it won't bleed,
won't break.
just festers.
the bartender pours her another,
and she drinks it fast,
chasing a relief she'll never catch.
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