It may as well be Christmas

I wake. Unable to sleep. With the giddiness of anticipation. The ill-at-ease of promised wonder. The Goldilocks-caliber dissatisfaction in the weight of my covers. The cat-caliber curiosity for getting up and at 'em. I am itching. Where my skin yearns for touch. Where my secrets seek chastisement. Where my shame hides.

I have fingernails, so I scratch.