The Itch

People who get under your skin

I feel your eyes of daggers
Wrenching into my body
As if I were a voodoo doll
Surrendering to your will

You hide in the dark
Like a lion in their den
Waiting to claw your way
Under my skin

You swim through my veins
Drying the rivers of red
Haunting me like a child
In their bedtime hours

Like the meanest winter
You desire to crack my skin
And freeze the vitality
Of which my passion flows 

The itch spreads
Like vines in a garden
Leaving thorns
And binding me still