A new form of hurt

I sit in the summerhouse.

The mosquitoes come.

I don’t bat them away.

I let them land.

I flinch as they stick their suckers into me.

I watch as their skinny bodies grow fat with my blood.

Satisfied, they unlatch and fly away, full and content.

The weal springs up on my skin.

Red hot and itchy.

A wound that is my fault but not my fault.

What do I say tomorrow, when I go to the doctor for a routine check-up, go for counselling when I was doing okay?